The Dreadfort's Dawntreader
by Helltanz98
Summary: House Bolton traces itself back to the Red Kings, since well before the coming of the Andals, never mind the Targaryens. Their dragons are dead now, a mad king sits that Iron Throne, but for the North it matters little. Alaric of Faerun, House Bolton's new lord is more concerned with enriching his house... and making sense of this new world he was reborn into.
1. Prologue

Notes:

(This is a fairly lengthy note, feel free to skip it if you don't care; 'control + f' "prologue" will take you to the start of the actual story.)

Before I begin this there are a few points I want to address. This story is likely going to break with several of my usual conventions for writing; and for you as the reader that may not be all that important. For example at the moment I have broken down the first several chapters into parts 'A, B, C...' so Chapter 1 may be broken up into several parts creating a sub arc that takes place over perhaps a week, or something to that effect dealing with travel time. Another thing, I may, or may not do dedicated perspective switch chapters; that is following specific characters.

However a lot of the 'commentary' given in story will be what can be construed as more opinion or perspective rather than 'absolute fact or truth'. For example certain medieval stereotypes, or in this case regional stereotypes, may be commented on as if they're fact even when they're not. Part of this is because Westeros has very low literacy, and a very weak church, so for example there is a stereotype amongst Westerosi that Lys is basically all brothels, is that true, no, because a city state in not capable of existing as such a caricature, but that would hardly stop someone talking about Lys from inevitably bringing up the whorehouses.

Now onto the prompt which spawned this; this story follows the reincarnation of a PC, an 'Adventurer', from a long running DnD campaign when I was in undergrad. Specifically 'Alaric' is reborn as a surviving older brother to Roose Bolton; too my knowledge the novels have never specifically said what year Roose was born. Now I need to reread a Dance for dragons, but currently I have Roose being born the same year as Eddard Stark, that may be wrong, but it is not overly important. Since in the course of drafts I've changed birth dates around several times, including one version where Alaric was born at the time of the tragedy of Summerhall (but scrapped that idea, because it was silly), but it would have still but Alaric in the same age group as Eddard's generation, as opposed to more midway between them, and the preceding one.

[I know in the current version (as of this writing) of AGOT (v1.8), a CK2 mod, it has his (Roose's) year of birth as 255. I am using material from the mod, but that is not one of them.]

Now with regards to canon, as I said the principle character is taken from a fairly long running campaign. If you have some familiarity with Dungeons and Dragons (2nd and 3.5) some of the lore is mentioned, but its not required. As it the way of tabletop lore was not strictly canonical at all instances for the sake of plot, and development. Additionally the course of the campaign ran using the rules from unearthed arcana, because it was a skill heavy campaign, but the characters were Gestalts builds, and it did progress into Epic. Alaric doesn't actually know how he died, because well in campaign he didn't; especially since the party/DM/campaign never paid mind to the 'canonical' late fifteenth century (read 4th edition).

Again, no actual knowledge of DnD is required for the sake of this story.

As far as timeline in Westeros, or Planetos if you prefer, the prologue opens a few years before the main story. The first 10 chapters, of the main story, at minimum, will probably take place in the year 281 [the Year of the False Spring]. Now that being said, before we begin this is the second draft of this prompt using the Forgotten Realms adventurer idea. So Prologue 277, Chapters 1 lets say 10 will be 281, those after will probably be 281 through 283 and however many chapters it takes to get through Robert's Rebellion, which is currently outlined, but not yet fleshed out.

Further, while this won't be as bad as the Malazan series, there will be a fair number of characters. Since this is set primarily in the North, at and around the Dreadfort there will be several recurring north men who share the same given name. So at some point I may add a 'Dramatis Personae' section to the start here, and even if I don't I'll probably end up referining to them by nicknames, or by surnames in the case of ennobled persons. Which brings us to the next part, this story deals significantly with the prospect of feudal society, obligations, and expectations, and particularly where conflicting obligations clash.

-Break-

\- Prologue-

The Year of the Defiance at Duskendale

277 Aegon's Conquest

The North.

He had been born, reborn perhaps was more accurate, on the fifteenth day of the third moon... with the same given name even as he held in a past life. That had been supplemented with a new clan name. The blood of ancient kings.

Alaric Bolton, and now he rode a chestnut roan upon the Red King's road to the Dreadfort. That had been where he had be born into this world. In his furs, and armor he looked the part of a lord of the First Men, of the North. He had never given any cause to question that existence... certainly none would be given, not now that the coronet was his.

The truth of such things...

He was lord of the Dreadfort now... now with Donnel Bolton's _passing_... which was just a dressing up of the whole grisly affair. It wasn't uncommon for a spike of banditry during winters. Winters that he wondered if were caused by some malfunctioning planar gate to the _elemental plane of ice_... he had no proof one way or another, if that logic held perhaps the summers were a gate to fire trying to rebalance it... and failing. Who could say?

Alaric in his past life had never been especially keen to ruminate on such things. There were, as always, more pressing things. It was hardly the only feature of this world he found queer. That it was all humans for example that was very strange. The children of the forest sounded as if perhaps they had been halflings... or gnomes. Whatever they had been they were gone. There were supposedly giants beyond the Wall still, but he had never been beyond that colossal structure. There were no elves... and it would have been one thing had they just been prudish isolationists, that much he at least could have understand. No. All wasn't all bad... not having to deal with Drow... or Orc slavers was a plus.

It was still weird as he had grown old enough to recognize it. He had lived his entire life here with the bulk of his academic education retained, there were bits and pieces he remembered, but processing that had required him growing into it... he supposed. At one and ten he had back his first level magiks. Not that he had much use for it. He hadn't had much cause for magic at all until that trip into the disputed lands, and none of his sailings east had required much sense.

His brother, Roose, knew about the magic... but not of the past life. Some of his closest retainers knew about the magic as well. Most of his sworn men though were more impressed by his talents ship wright, and architecture... as if anything he built in this world would have been much of anything in Toril.

His memories, even smiling as he rode it didn't reach his eyes, were no whole. He suspected he had died violently. Perhaps Hextor's Blackguard, but he doubted that. He had had many rivals, and there was no reason to assume it had been by a human hand he had been felled by. It didn't really matter he supposed... there was magic in this world regardless of those that would deny that.

There was a hedge witch in his own western borderlands... the crone might have been nearly a hundred but could only cast what he recognized as second level magics. Another in a village in the Wolf's woods. That didn't say much of course there were others who had been to commoners lots, but magic was not common to this world. He had heard tales of what could be druids, and shifters, and other things, but scant proof... so he had not pursued them.

He had met a warlock in service to the red god across the sea, and there were others he had said, but he admitted they were few. Perhaps that red god was one of the arch fiends, or perhaps one who had been cast from the infernal hells... perhaps he was something else. He suspected that if he expended the effort for it he'd find other clerics worth the name, but thus far only he.

"Its good to be home." The man beside the trailing horse said as they passed under the manned battlements of the gate.

It had been several months now... since Donnel Bolton's passing... it would be a year soon. "There were things that needed to be put to rights," He replied easing back on his reins. Donnel Bolton had died as he had lived. His death had been the vain glorious sort of thing marred by the stark realism of such things. He'd been struck in the head hunting winter bandits, and taken ill. Alaric had he even been within the boundaries of the Bolton lands might have been able to do something... but he hadn't... not that Roose faulted him for his absence. He'd been at sea.

Donnel Bolton might not have been thrilled with such adventures, but he had liked it better than books, and that had been something. He wondered how heavily his father had been in his cups during the last fight of his life. Besides even if he had been there, it would have meant Alaric having to explain magic, and it would likely only delayed Donnel's demise rather than prevented it. If it hadn't been this collection of outlaws it would have been another this year, or the next, or whenever... he would have only been delaying his ascension to the coronet. Donnel Bolton's carousing through their lands and hunting was always going to be the end of him rather than old age...

To the extent Roose had wanted to prohibit public drinking and carousing during the period of morning. It had been hard not to scoff, as if that would have worked. Roose might not have wished to prohibit alcohol in total, but his brother would have happily taxed it as heavily as he could have gotten away with without revolt. Roose had been a mess, and had lashed out over it all... for whatever faults that Donnel had had, the smallfolk had mostly liked him. House Bolton might have meant fear, but the smallfolk had also known that the lord of the Dreadfort took the threat of banditry on the roads, of wildlings, and other outlaws seriously. That had been enough. Not enough for Roose though, not enough for a five and ten second son.

Men in mail and plate shifted at the call of 'Rider!' as they approached the juncture of the road. One fork leading south and eastwards; a road he had taken many times to make for Overton and the small port it held. The small posse of men who had travelled with him narrowed around his roan since most of even those men were unaware the ring he wore conveyed protection against arrows, and he did not intend to advertise such.

"Make way, make way I ride for the Dreadfort, and Lord Bolton." the messenger cried to them from his lathered horse.

Beside him the older form of his captain of his personal guard... and thus likely the marshal of all Bolton armsmen de jure, scoffed. "Hold man," He shouted back, lifting his shield emblazoned with House Overton's crest on it, "I'm Braxton Overton, and we are returning to the Dreadfort, come and tell us what this is about." The Overton messenger jolted in his saddle, and fought to bring his mount under control. No doubt he'd been pushing hard from the coast, which quite like meant word from White Harbor. That left the men around him disquiet with tension, as while sail was fast a raven's wing could cover much and with greater certainty... but then Donnel Bolton had always distrusted Maesters, even if their rookery talents could not be denied. There were things that a Maester of the Citadel would not spread word of.

Alaric turned his reins and let his mount saunter up besides his captain, but didn't identify himself. It was entirely unreasonable to expect every Bolton bannerman to recognize him onsite... though he really would have expected at least Overton men to know him. He had taken enough of them with him along for his little Essosi adventure the year before. Father had been surprisingly enough sober when they had returned from that, and in good spirits. "Hail ser," He called, "I am Alaric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort." If anything the rider's eyes widened further turning from Braxton's weather worn face to the younger noble.

"My lord," The rider stammered swallowing, and panting, "There is grave news from the capital... from King's Landing sire. His Majesty King Aerys has been seized." There was a shift at the declaration as the discomfort passed through the men, and the horses they road felt it.

It was no secret that the Warden of the North, its overlord Lord Rickard, the Stark of Winterfell had all but naked ambitions regarding the South. The ties with the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale were all done to enrich the North. Aerys II Targaryen was a poor king, but he did have grandiose ambitions entertaining but rarely committing to projects. The idea of a canal through the Neck for example... it would have bankrupted the realm. The irrigation terraces, or whatever, for Dorne had been another. In fact he was sure by this point Aerys had talked about one or more of such things for every one of the seven kingdoms of Westeros... and nothing had ever come of it.

"Explain," Alaric demanded shifting his weight back on his saddle, "Who has seized the king?"

The words spilled out as quickly as he made the demand, "House Darklyn, milord. Lord Denys Darklyn, they say there was a dispute over taxes." He gestured for one of the fresh mounts, and they ambled on after the man had switched to the new horse, and he listened as they continued along the old Red King's road. Truthfully, this was a southron affair, and probably should be treated as such... but he doubted Lord Rickard would see it that way. Rickard Stark had grand ambitions to be Cregan Stark reborn anew. It was a grand dream surely, but no doubt the Hand of the King was already working on resolving this.

\- scene break-

He found Roose scowling, and sulking over the maps with the maester assigned by the Citadel to tend the Dreadfort's lands. Roose didn't care for the man... but then again Donnel Bolton had gone through maesters like a scythe to wheat at the harvest. Part of it was probably paranoia; the late lord Bolton's distrust that was. Part of that distrust had likely contributed to him putting things off. Donnel had been a warrior first, and everything a distant third if they were lucky. Besides the bandit problem, and salivating at the prospect of the wildlings managing to slip past the useless layabouts of the Night's Watch most of everything else had been about drinking. It had left the land fallow, and hence the maps. Since while Donnel hadn't been a bad lord, and certainly not unpopular, but it was truth that he had been an ineffective one.

Before the Andals had come from across the sea the North hadn't really been unified. For that matter there hadn't been real unity in the time after. The North's Great Houses had been cattle, and barley farmers in the far expanse of land, and still were. While they had gone to iron weapons, and the stirrup, as it had become available they had not raised the great seats as idle fancy. Grazing land, woodland, and grain land. Fen, marsh, hill, and all the rest might not have been tremendously productive but it broke up the lands between ancient clans and had allowed many kings before the Starks had crowned themselves Kings in the North. Northern fighting men excelled at melee not because there wasn't pastureland to feed horses, but because there had never been a traditional use for the stout lances Southron tourneys employed since it had taken the Andals coming to introduce the stirrup.

Karlon, another of his armsmen, made a show of dragging a large chair over from against the wall to the map table of the solar. The man could have easily picked it up and lifted the dark oak over his head, but exalted as the reachman, the maester, flinched at the noise. Alaric dropped into the chair when it was proffered to him. He rested an elbow on the table, and leaned his face down against his palm surveying the map. The Cromby's had been surprisingly prompt in their work, and he wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not. Most likely Stepan Cromby, the lord of the House, was angling to be steward since certainly that would be putting one over on the Overtons. There were other houses as well... the Waltons for example. Once the Boltons had been the Red Kings, and of the Lords of the North, and certainly those on the Eastern shore they were powerful still.

With the racket abated though the reachman simpered slightly, "My lord, as you can clearly see the lay of the land," The new census... the first since probably his father's father's reign, "Is uh progressing. We expect word from the Etherings by the next moon turn," Another week or so, "And of course the coastlands have been quite prompt." Braxton snorted. "If you are still entertaining the notion of granting your brother rights to raise his own holdfast we may have sufficient grasp of the lands to make a judgment of such."

He wasn't all that surprised that Ethering was behind. It was more hilly in that county, and the land better supported sheep than it did cattle grazing. He was willing to be patient. Roose's grimace didn't go unnoticed either, as raising a new fort would not be a small task. Realistically Roose was unlikely to be able to spare the time for such a new holding in the face of wider duties. Donnel Bolton had ruled for thirty odd years, admittedly including his regency, and had never bothered with a census of his demesne... and Roose was right to dread trying to raise a new holding while they 'cleaned house'.

Ethering itself was another issue. Ethering was a charted town. Within the capacity of feudal custom the merchants within it were used to a certain degree of autonomy. Plopping a castle on the best hillside without considering their influence would have been foolish. Besides he was lucky enough he wasn't having to contend with a regency, Roose certainly wasn't ready for his own fief. There would have been trouble otherwise. So part of that was they were really waiting for time to survey, but discussing that would have been in poor taste.

The maester sucked his lower lip and glanced at Braxton, taking a half step further, "There is the matter of Lord Overton,"

"What, is, it, now?" Alaric leaned his head back. It wasn't like Eamon Overton's complaints were somehow new. He had subjected Donnel Bolton to the same complaints about the roads, the mines, tolls, and taxes and everything else since he'd come into his own coronet. It was the man's nature to complain about things; he nagged. The maester would get used to it, but it was hardly the thing that was foremost on Alaric's mind.

In a somewhat surprising turn of events it actually involved the South. Or more accurately the King... since he had been seized by Denys Darklyn. The entire cause of all of this had been rights and privileges... and taxes. Technically all the royal impositions on narrow sea trade still held sway, merchants and tradesmen needed to be taxed. Most likely Eamon had probably been short changing the royal tariffs for a dozen years. He had no proof to that assertion, and legally there were a number of noble privileges Eamon could cite since he wasn't himself a smallfolk tradesman. There was a good chance, better than even at the minimum, that such things were why Duskendale was upset with the crown. Duskendale being in the royal demesne, and more important within easy reach of the royal fleet meant they couldn't get away with such near as easily.

"As if he isn't fat enough," Braxton muttered in regards to his older brother.

It was one thing in this world Alaric had never fathomed in his other life naval power was significantly more respected. This tradition of lords burning their ships was... very surreal. Though he could remember word of the kingdom of Alba doing it once to make nice with Astur after a particularly nasty feud. So the idea wasn't completely alien. It just seemed wasteful.

"I mislike like this," Roose grunted crossing his arms over his still slim boyish chest, which would have been more impressive if it didn't make him look almost petulant. Still his brother had held most of the administrative tasks of day to day running for the fortress for the last few moons. Even so...

It wasn't as if Roose didn't have a point. On the other hand, Rickard Stark's southern push made any trade over the narrow see lucrative. Eamon's wheeling and dealing would never match the Manderly juggernaut, but it didn't need to. The Targaryen taxmen actually kept office in White Harbor, not that it likely stopped them... and who knew just what the western shore got up to. There were nasty rumors on the far side of Westeros... though there were the Iron born on that side of the land.

Alaric Bolton sipped his pepper beer, and eyed the collection of maps again. "Who all is still at sea, any of your cousins?" He asked Braxton.

"Aye Joran said he had planned to ship for Braavos a moon's turn back," The man replied, "Timber for their yards. Surely others though have sailed,"

It was too much opportunity for coin. "The Pirates in the channel will be swarming Pentos, possibly even further north." The Bravosi fleet had a reputation, but occasionally they still found the need to make good on it, and with the Iron Throne in disorder there would be plenty of opportunists. They weren't all together likely to bother the whalers, but slavers were known to be stupid at times.

Roose fixed him with a look.

"I've got no plans to make for Essos," The one trip had accomplished what he had been searching, but he understood the point. On the outside that trip had seemed to be about nothing but personal wealth, and adventure. He also hadn't been lord of the Dreadfort then either. He hadn't expected it to be necessary to make a trip so soon either. Though, admittedly he hadn't expected to be succeeding to the coronet so soon. "There is too much to be done at home to try and sail for Myr, or Volantis on new ships." Now there was this business with the king.

-scene break-

The most likely explanation was that the message to Winterfell had been sent through White Harbor, and it explained Lord Stark's promptness. As lord paramount Tywin Lannister had probably penned a missive especially for him... likely to stay out of it. Rickard Stark though had not given indication of what he was going to do, though there were no directions to summon his banners.

As it was Alaric would have considered that wasteful.

The door cracked open, and he glanced at it. In the week previous Braxton had ridden to check on the Overton lands, and he was expected back soon. Karlon, and several others, were all similarly predisposed preparing for the possibility the banners were called regardless of how unlikely that was. It was the most he could do at the moment. The man who entered was, as most of Alaric's companions, taller than the lord the Dreadfort. Even in his previous life he hadn't been especially tall, so he was quite resigned to the notion that even if he grew a half span he would never be considered tall. Roose unfortunately seemed likely to also be merely average in height. The essoi surgeon's skin was nearly copper in color. "I do not think your chained man likes me overly much," He remarked as he came into the room... no doubt he must have passed the maester in the hall.

"He doesn't have to," Alaric grunted, "I'm certainly not going to trust that craven shit to go into battle."

The man's laugh was deep, "True, I doubt he could string a bow very well. I thought we weren't going to war?" The essosi notion of war was just battle.

"Not unless another Blackfyre appears, Arasmes" The two men chuckled, sharing in the joke, "Or the Golden company moves, but I doubt that. I have Karlon, and some others, acting only out of an abundance of caution." He disliked the idea of trying to organize the houses, and lands sworn to the Dreadfort in the present condition. Only the Lords of High Point had 'knights' amongst their sworn men, which was about par the course for the North... Lord Stark had been knighted but really he wasn't sure what that, those gold spurs, distinction was worth. Of course the Lords of High Point were Seven worshipers much like the Manderly for that matter. That actually didn't bother him as much as it had originally. He still held to the beliefs of his previous life, and his magics worked, which was reassuring... not that planar travel was something he was capable of. Certainly not in his weakened state. "And?"

Arasmes tilted his head, and splayed his scarred hands, "The boy is fine, the horses are fine. There should be no issue with any of it." His tone clearly implied otherwise... and in that Alaric could guess what he meant. "Speaking of horses? Are you sure we are not to battle?"

The Essossi impression of Westeros was that the military aristocracy always rushed to resolve things with sword... and perhaps if there were armies in the field it would have been different. It was just as likely that hand of the King hadn't called the banners to avoid causing the rebels to murder their hostage in a panic. Whatever troops Lord Lannister had on hand were likely enough to do what he wanted of them... at least for now.

"I may convene a council of my lords." Not that it was likely to yield much. There hadn't yet been word from Winterfell, and he doubted as fresh as he was to his position that anyone expected him to provide advice. On the other hand... this was precisely the sort of affair to solidify his respectability amongst his vassals but hosting them here. "Has there been word from High Point?"

"No," The man replied, "I know of no riders, and certainly the maester has not said of any ravens from there."

Then he'd have to pen one, "If anyone knows how to make sense of whats going on south of all of this well, its the one who's had to live through this sort of southern foolishness before." And it was true the Lord of High Point was unquestionably his oldest vassal. He had held his coronet for half a century, since his father had died in the 4th Blackfyre revolt actually. Alaric hoped that that was not the direction this was heading in. "I'll summon lord Whitehill," It would take him a week or more to get to here, but hopefully by that point there might something from Winterfell. The problem was Edric's age, at this point he had already survived two sons who had lived to see adulthood. "if word comes from Winterfell make sure I wish to be informed immediately, is Joran still out in the hall?"

He nodded, but truthfully any surprise word was unlikely. The North was the largest and most untamed of the Kingdoms. Not even the Reach truly compared in size, and their verdant plains were far from small. Worse the North's Wolf Road, and Kingsroad were the only main proper roads to speak of, and they were limited in what they touched.

No, if Alaric had wanted to send a message to his neighbors he had to send a boat down the Weeping to Overton, and ship the messenger by sea to take it along the coast. That wasn't practical per se. By the same accounting he could have done that had some sail south for the White Knife, up it and to Winterfell, but that would still take time, but at least twice as quick as overland... unless the river froze over... and that unfortunately was a very possible turn of events. IT was why it was better to sail south, and then up the white knife rather than trying to just ride for White Hill though, and go south from there... in winter at least. If this were summer it would have been different.

Six months. The Defiance at Duskendale had lasted half a year. It should have told them what all it was to come. No one could have expected what would come to pass. Of what the Defiance at Dusknedale's fallout held out as a portent for what was to come for the realm. It would have been best had Ser Barristan Selmy to have left Aerys II Targaryen alone. It would have been better perhaps for the Realm that Aerys II died in captivity.


	2. Chapter 1 Part A

Chapter 1 Part A

-scene break-

The Year of the False Spring

281 Aegon's Conquest

The North. Overton.

There was only a slight breeze to greet them, but beyond that the sky was fair, the sun bright, and little to distract. "You're riding south?"  
"Technically I will be sailing south," Alaric corrected, adjusting the heavy woolen shirt. They had taken river barge most of the way down the Weeping river. While it was true there was a river road the river itself was much more effective, and it wasn't as if either option were precisely straight lines. Still the river made the more than a hundred miles south to the coast much easier for moving Maesters had suggested that spring might be coming, but one wouldn't know from the span of snow that had been pushed out of the way of the roads that had been before them. If they were right though they'd need to dredge the weeping again, make it easier to travel its course, and that would mean taxes, and the merchants, of the towns, wouldn't care for that. "I will ride south in due course, but for the moment its to white harbor. I'll be a few days there, as the party assembles to make for Harrenhall."

Roose's equally pale eyes narrowed, fixing his brother with a disdainful expression, "Its a queer thing." The 'thing' in this case was the cause to assemble at Harrenhall in the first place.

He wasn't necessarily wrong, it was a lot of money to expend even for a favored child, but he felt the need to disagree all the same, mostly because his brother disliked being involved with the south in general... especially after Duskendale. "Harrenhall straddles the god's eye, and is upon half dozen routes for trade. The tolls lord Whent takes swells his coffers without him even attempting to bilk anyone of more than he's owed," Whent could have easily taken cue from the Freys and charged more in tolls for such passage, but he didn't, and that kept the old man popular with his high born neighbors, and the merchants alike. "So, no its not a queer thing, Roose." He remarked lightly, "Lord Stark has his southron obsessions, and even if he didn't Brandon wedding Hoster Tully's daughter is reason enough, even without his second son, Lord Jon Arryn, and Lord Baratheon coming to the tourney."

Predictably the nearly nine, and ten second son of House Bolton and legal heir apparent scoffed, and turned to the issue. "And you'll not sail for Essos after?" Roose was looking at the massive form of the Harrier with its alien sail plan. Roose didn't care for the sea, and the recent deaths of Lord Steffon Baratheon in his own 'Shipbreaker bay' hung heavy between the brothers.

"You seemed to have liked those Valyrian scrolls I brought back from Volantis well enough," He chided, prompting his brother to look back from the ship, "I've got no mind to sail for Essos after this. Lord Stark wishes to make a presence in the Riverlands, and for the others who attend-" The Thanes, and their chiefs, of Skagos seemed to be the only ones who seemed as like to not come.

"And is suggesting a Stormlander bride," Roose grunted darkly in a quiet tone, referring to a suggestion from some months previous about marriage options, "This is a plot to tether and control us, to this mad ambition." Ambition by itself wasn't evil. Roose had no objections to if it resulted in a quiet land, but this was the exact opposite of what was likely to occur from dealing with the south. In Roose's ideal it would have been entirely acceptable to try and crack down on every breach of social order. If he thought he could have gotten away with it he would tried banning drink... though at least he was mellowing on that. Though he still felt being publicly drunk was a floggable offense. No, especially after the Defiance at Duskendale's bloody aftermath Roose wanted nothing to do with the Southern Kingdoms. As far as Roose was concerned Winterfell was far enough away, across river, and hill and mountains there was little point quibbling over the Starks and that was perhaps only five hundred miles... not that one would ever find a straight path between them.

"I'm leaving Eagle, and Raptor here," A pause, as he considered the docks themselves and the growing forms, before he gave explanation to the decision, "some of the Lorathi were acting queer, and," Whilst, he had his suspicions that they'd been looking for easy pickings. That didn't mean Overton was likely to be attacked, but he'd prefer no challenges to any of the shipping that fed the city; its belly or its coin purse. "Eamon should be able to manage things while I'm gone," Not that Lord Overton would be sailing anything into combat, but he would have the authority to direct the seamen in the event of a problem and be taken seriously.

He'd been fifteen when he'd undertaken his expedition into the disputed lands. Fifteen, though with a whole other lifetime underneath his belt. He hadn't been worried about dying with access to his magic, and his upbringing's contempt for the essossi way of battle. Truthfully that contempt had proven valid, even though it didn't make the Essossi completely useless in a fight either. The children of Valyria, the colonial cities of the now gone freehold, those feudatory city states may have been long free of the dragon rider yoke but they still spent their time in the pursuit of the same grandiosity where possible. He was not overly keen on trusting their academics as he was the maesters of the citadel. Another possible bias he recognized, but was difficult to combat.

The idea of a singular institution controlled learning was alien. In his previous life it would have been absurd a combination of religious and secular authorities generally quibbled over large duchies, never mind actual kingdoms, never mind again the prospect of empires. There were no temples of any pantheon he recognized from his past life, and certainly none which educated either the nobility or the more affluent peasantry. That was well beyond his ability to hope to set up. One cleric, or wizard could not a school raise in a man's lifetime, though a wizard's that remained to be seen.

He turned towards the gantry. He remembered enough, at least of how to wage war. That had included raising the ships they sailed. Harrier was nearly seventy meters long and over a dozen abeam. He he had no way of replicating the sloops of his past world's mage fire cannons, and as a result Harrier to make do with the more traditional siege weapons which still wouldn't have been out of place in that world either. The boseman Luhrs adjusted the ropes as they brought the last bits of cargo aboard.

Roose still looked sullen at the prospect. The trade missions to essos were possible because of the conditions of the realm. They profitable because there was a demand, but never enough supply. He had a leg up in the ships. Roose's complaints were less that they were in any way undignified of high born, but because it attracted the wrong sort to harbors. Drunken sailors, and merchants were less than deferential of men born their betters, and caused trouble in town. That was what Roose most of all didn't like.

"We're ready, ser," Luhrs declared, "thats the last of it." He called once he was sure the provisions for the journey were secure.

Then that was it. It was time to sail before they wasted the whole morning. The trip to White Harbor wouldn't actually be that bad. The Manderlys were expecting them, and while he was unlikely to ever have the relations he enjoyed with the Karstarks he would certainly prefer to enjoy their support against the animosity of the Umbers that had developed over the years at Winterfell. It also wouldn't hurt if he was right about Lorath's _ah hemm_ privateers. They were really pirates, but insistent terminology, and there was no denying they had some official support. So privateers... except when he caught them... then they were crow food. Still the coast was wide, he'd need the Manderly's help to keep an eye on things, especially with so many northern lords south for Rickard's impression.

He crossed his hands behind his back and traversed the deck. "So then whats Harrenhall like?" The man who fell into step beside him, "I hear Whent is good people for a blue blood."

"Lord Whent is a good man, but Harrenhall is the largest and thus the most dilapidated castle in the whole realm," Which said something given how much wealth the Whent's took in per annum. Of course rebuilding the massive Hoare fortress would have made all of his neighbors very nervous... though Alaric would have been lying if he had said he wouldn't have tried to bring it into some what more practical military functionality. "But please avoid saying that in front of any of the seven worshippers. The Manderlys might take it in stride, but I don't know how well the riverlanders will..." Gods forbid the Reach...

"Fucking weirdos and their godhead," The man hocked and spit over the side. "Thing." Alaric groaned... Professional sailors... well no there weren't really any 'professional' sailors, life long sailors on this world were... well, generally like this. "Oh come on you've said the same damned thing."

Alaric's eyes narrowed, but it was true, he had gotten more than a bit mouthy about what he thought of the southerner's and their strange superstitions. Even the weird fire worshippers at least got magic for some of their clergy... even if from everything he'd heard thus far on Rhllor screamed lawful evil fiend from the _nine hells_. "I'll have to watch how much I drink," he muttered more to himself, and watched the ratings adjust the sails, "Show me a septon with spells from his gods and I'll admit they're clerics worth the name." The distinction he knew was lost to the men, in truth.

"All my god gave was a big swinging dick, sir." the Third Man called to them as he came to announce the last of the ropes had been cast away, and the anchors were secured.

He sighed... it was going to be one of those days, "Set a course, take us for the cape."

"Right." His voice raised to a shout as he addressed the men on the deck, "All right you bastards, and keep an eye for those Lorathi scum!" The man added perhaps unnecessarily after.

Alaric stared into the eastern sky as they turned away from the delta of the weeping. Dipping into the wind they might clip ten knots on this part of the coast this time of the year. Realistically he expected about three quarters of that today. They'd spend too much time dodging fishing, and whaling ships to make speed. When they got into open sea, and into the trade winds they'd be much faster still.

By about three in the afternoon Navigator Caird had them plotted, and First Officer Falmouth was leering off into the clouds, "That Lorathi ship has been trailing us, and they've struck colors," It wasn't smart... Braavos would likely sink them on sight for that sort of thing. Ask questions never in this situation. "We can outpace them easy, but they have to know where we're going." He muttered lowering the spyglass.

"Chances that there are other ships? Or what this could be about?"

"If they were Tyroshi, or out of Myr they'd make more sense." Falmouth grunted. "Lyseni even more so than that." The lesser noble shook his head, hocked and spat over the side.

"We did fuck them last season, on that run to Volantis, but no I don't recall screwing the Lorathi over anything. Ever."

The Lord of the Dreadfort pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought, this was the problem with having ships running across the narrow sea like this. "What about Pentos?"

The two officers shared a look, "Yeah, yeah thats possible. Pentos has the coin to bribe privateers from Lorath to make trouble for us." Lorath's finances were supposed to be in dire straights, but he'd never been to the northern free city, only as far to Braavos, and from the North the Titan's city wasn't far at all.

If they had had Raptor, and Eagle it would have been different. Better to try and out run them to the Manderly waters. There was no sense getting into a fight off the coast. "Keep me apprised," and he headed for below decks. The massive dog cracked an eye at his approach, but he paid it no mind moving for his trunk. Magically speaking, especially in his weakened state. The truth was if they were close enough for magic they were close enough for ballistae... which admittedly was not an ideal solution at extreme ranges either; not on a churning ship at open sea. There were a dozen different reasons someone of means could be set off against them... and this was why his little brother opposed these ventures gold involved aside. Alaric unrolled a series of scrolls that had yet to be transfered to his master ledger, and shook his head in disgust. Literacy was hardly common even with the nobility, after all there were only so many maesters to go around, and the result had been that most landed knights remained illiterate because of the lack of martial application in a largely peaceful realm. It put a distinct strain on who he could trust to name as officers of rank... or more reason for such strains. He disgustedly pushed the chicken scratch away from him. It would give him a headache trying to parse out the intermittent gutter Valyrian that cropped into it. He sighed, and reached for the small tins containing salt, and soot. He slapped a hand on the parchment.

_**Comprehend Language.**_

A direct literal translation into gutter Valyrian wasn't always useful. Idioms, the cultural expressions, of for that matter Southern Westerosi didn't' always make literal sense to him, but in this case he didn't have anything more pressing. If the Lorathi were engaged as sell sails this was the nearest thing he could do to turn up something. Besides with any luck they round the cape and be into Manderly waters quickly enough. His previous life had put significantly more time at sea than this world seemed to.

It told him enough though, as he walked around the cabin, and loosened the top two buttons of his heavy wool frock he was wearing. His cabin was one part mobile office of affairs, some of his baggage was here, though his two sets of armor were down below... goodness knew he had no intention of riding through the eastern Riverlands in a set of full plate if he didn't have to. He looked back at the scrolls. Armor in the Merman's court wouldn't be needed except in the practice yard, and more than likely he'd only need his bow for that. Wendel would be good to practice against. Still he'd need to practice for the melee.

-scene break-

The officers of the ship stood gathered amidship to enjoy the sun and clear air while it was available. They'd broken contact in the night. A couple of cat's eyes charms meant his night watch knew what to keep an eye for. "Surprised they gave up that easy."

"I'm not, even the Lorathi should know they can't match our ships," Not with sails open, not for speed, even laden with cargo"in open seas. They should know they'd never catch us if wanted to. Only the iron born would be stupid enough to try and chase us." First Officer Karluv Falmouth grunted, "I don't get them trying though."

Ahead of them were the first signs of Manderly influence though as they passed into the Bite, and ships surounding the sisters splayed out. They'd probably make White Harbor by this time tomorrow. "Speak with the Manderly captains about it," He grunted, but it really was the question better posed to the likes of the Vale of Arryn's coastal holds. Those ports would likely have had more trade with Pentos directly, and could have said something about the politics, or motivations of the magisters. The Manderly were certainly the biggest harbor and port in the North but that meant they were unlikely to know specifics.

"You think this could be blackfyre related?" Alaric's pale eyes narrowed, and Caird raised his hands defensively, "I'm just saying the trip down a few years back in the disputed lands wouldn't have won us any friends of whats left of the ninepenny kings."

That had been twenty odd years ago though, and while it was possible he had his doubts even given the precarious situation the city's northern neighbor had put them in, "And that still doesn't give us an explanation."

Caird, Snow, shook his head, "Boss, we might _naht_ ever get one. You might not, and yet tomorrow some bravo might swagger along and tell us everything before we cut his throat. Its not likely though," That was true, much as he loathed to admit that. His navigator was right though, and..."Look its probably I was gonna say you slept with the Prince's daughter, but everyone agrees that isn't you," Falmouth glanced at the Navigator, "besides Pentoshi blue blood cunts are a drag anyway. Besides what I meant to say is this could be something really really petty, and nothing to worry about. If it comes to it well we'll just kill 'em by the barrel."

Falmouth nodded over his tarred jacket, "Aye, Caird is right Harrier is capable of outturning any ship in the narrow sea, we take their masts out without much trouble." It was true that Lorathi galleys did have two, three decks of oarsmen, meaning they wouldn't be quite dead in the water, least if they kept them far enough away, but in open sea it would be close enough. "Wait, what if thats the problem?"

"I don't follow."

Falmouth looked at him, and then waved to the masts, "Harrier, Raptor, Eagle, You planned the ships."

"Falmouth."

The officer swept a hand towards the galley bearing the merman banner, "Harrier is the fastest ship anyone has ever seen." They'd seen a few of the far southern caravels hit twelve knots in favorable winds, largely for brief jaunts as the winds held. "We made the run from Overton to Volantis in Twenty four days, and thats cause we stopped in other ports of call along the way. Eagle, and Raptor they're not slow either." They'd been built with larger hulls, for somewhat greater cargo, "We're hitting them in the purse." Never mind that there were other ships he'd done the draft work, and other ones which were now being fitted out, even if it might be another year. "Its not gonna stop, especially not with the Braavos breathing down Pentos's neck."

"Fuck, he's right." Caird grunted, "and we're cutting their purse. Falmouth thats pretty merchant of you, whats your mum do again?" The baseborn snarked.

Alaric groaned, but he hadn't considered that. Harrier was relatively mundane by the standards of ships of his past life. She certainly didn't fly, and had no elemental systems to speak of. She would have a normal ship of voyage in his past life. The kind of ship he likely would have sailed on with no real notice, but that wasn't the case here. Those same funds from his brigs were fueling the expansion of Overton shipyards, which wasn't the sort of investment nobles made in this world. "It is possible. Falmouth with the coins we take in what would the lord of Gulltown spend his share of it on, if he were me?"

"A cadet Arryn, or a Grafton," He shook his head to indicate that it didn't matter which, "tapestries from Myr, fine silverware, goblets, food fit for feasts. That coin would be spent for luxury, and he'd spend it as soon as it touched his purse." Falmouth shrugged, and ran a hand through his thinning seaswept blonde hair, "They'd spend the money so fast they wouldn't remember what they'd spend it on."

Alright so the Gulltown Arryns were probably not the best example, nor the Graftons who legally held the city proper, but it didn't change the fact while it did make much more sense than their previous speculation. On the other hand their original Essossi expedition hadn't been all about making friends. That hadn't been the goal at all, but then neither had been making money in the disputed lands either. "We're still going to need to speak to the Manderly about this," and how it was their portion of the coast was dealing with this intrusion.

-scene break-

The Court of the Merman was the same as his last visit, and the visit before that, and the one before that. The Bite formed a massive bay that marked the maritime border between the Vale, and the North. Coming down from the north was the delta of the White Knife, stradling which was White Harbor itself. The White Knife of course could be sailed up to until one reached Cerwyn one of the fiefdoms sworn directly Winterfell, and access to the King's road, which all the more cemented White Harbor's importance to Northern Trade.

It was the largest city in the North by virtue of that access. The river, and the sea permitted mobility and access to food in a way that far deeper inland cities couldn't. In all likelihood Overton, and Ethering both, would one day have more people living in it than the Dreadfort. Cities outgrew castle towns, that was the way of things.

"I'll never get used to seeing all of these seveners." Alaric muttered something that Karluv Falmouth knew intellectually was the Imaskari language, but could not translate himself, "Apologies," He returned, "but its true." Falmouth shrugged having not been told what precisely was true, but left the matter.

... and there was the problem. Alaric had fostered at the court of Rickard Stark briefly, the same as most of the first born sons of the eastern shore's great houses.

Essossi was religiously cosmopolitan. In fact even in Old Andal, now under Pentos and to a lesser extent Bravosi sway, there wasn't much in the way of Seven worship there. Oh there was a sept across the sea yes, but that was the point. It was the Sept across the Sea. The Olds Gods, the nameless gods of nature, were still worshiped in the North. It was a reflective religion rather than the aggressive tribal way it had been hundreds of years previous. In twenty one years on this world, which admittedly including grow to manhood for a second time, he had seen no real example of organization in the faith of the old gods. Priests were few and far between... and old. Mostly relegated to the hill, and mountain clans of the North, and supposedly in the Neck. Though he honestly thought of them as Shamans than Clerics. There in lay the issue. He took fasts in the groves of weir woods in the morning, but he still held to the god of another world. Besides he received spells for his end of things, and even if he hadn't no one questioned it. At some point though he was going to have to fully codify the texts in the local tongue, but his previous's life's religion hadn't been inclined towards proselytizing as say Pelor's, who held similar domains, church had. Though he could understand where the lack of spells from ones deities would encourage the pursuit of temporal power in the realm of finance, and social influence.

The great hall in the New Castle's seat creaked as Wyman Manderly stood. He had put on some weight over the last few months... probably from that broken leg last year. He had heard it had been a fairly bad fall. "Ah, you'd made good time Al." Wyman rubbed his beginning to bulge stomach. "I wish some of my sworn men kept a schedule as well as you." The Almost forty Lord of House Manderly barked straightening, and clapped his hands, "Aye lets eat, it will be seven days yet," likely at least, going by the wolf's road, with pack and tack and carriages if word of Lady Lyanna was coming, "before Lord Stark arrives, and we set out for the Riverlands."

It was rather sad actually, Alaric thought helping himself to a boiled egg. The final, admittedly circuitous route, route to their destination, would be to sale back out of the Bit, down around the fingers, into the Bay of Crabs, past quiet Isle, the Saltpans, and make landfall at Castle Darry, take the road down to Harrenhall. It let them neatly side step the Riverroad, and the Twins. "Was there some delay?"

Lord Manderly's chuckle became more strained, "Ah, not really. Not of Lord Stark's party, but," He sighed and shook his head, and smiled, "Brandon is your generation's wild wolf."

Of that much, Alaric had no intention of disagreeing. Snows perhaps... He had very little exposure with Lord Stark's second son, but Brandon, and his sister Lyanna were significantly more reckless than their third brother Benjen. Well as long as it didn't result in another Greystarks problem, not really his problem... "Will this delay our sailing for Gulltown?" Eddard Stark, and Robert Baratheon were supposed to still be traveling with their guardian the honorable Lord Jon Arryn of the main branch of the Vale's ruling House of Arryn.

"No, I don't think so." Wyman shook his head, "eat, lad." He pushed the plate of boiled eggs, "The maester says its good for you to eat boiled eggs."

That sounded like even more insufferable advice than the simpering reachman already provided unbidden, but he took another egg. "Have your captains taken note of the Lorathi's turn of behavior as of late?"

His cheeks puffed out, and he exhaled, "We get them every season, but rarely in the numbers we've seen of late." Wyman shook his head, "I suppose you take the good with the bad." He shook his head, muttered about fishing complaints, and then after another egg spoke up, "Still my captains haven't come to me about any serious pirate problems."

He shrugged, "It may be nothing," Though it was a concession in name only, he had already planted the idea in the lord of White Harbor's head. He had already confirmed that at the very least the Lorathi were more active than normal. There wasn't anything in Northern Essos that had ever caught his eye west of Bravos. He'd never sent ships that direction, and probably wouldn't. "It could be simply smugglers."

"Aye thats true." Wyman agreed, "But one often is or attracts the other."

One of the knights, who Alaric didn't know, wrinkled his nose, "Lord Manderly if it pleases you, I would be happy to rouse some upstanding men to deal with any such dockyard ruffians." Alaric glanced at the man's gold spurs... and appearance, surely the man didn't dress like this every day... that was a ridiculous amount of effort spent on grooming. What was that in his hair?

Wyman popped another egg into his mouth to avoid having to answer the question immediately, and held up a hand to stymie a repeat of the question, "Not quite yet, but with Lord Stark coming we'll need to be on our guard, so keep the harbor watch on their toes." That seemed to assuage the knight into quieting down. "So four weeks to Volantis," He whistled, "How was it?"

Alaric shrugged, "They finally let us inside the Old city," He'd only been a half dozen times, "They are very insistent about palanquins."

Wyman nodded through another mouthful, and wiped his lips, "Lord Steffon Baratheon, may he rest in peace, traveled to Volantis looking for a bride for Prince Rhaegar." He had heard that the king had been searching for someone of Valyrian stock to replenish the blood. "Bad luck that," Still the arrangement with Dorne wasn't all that surprising. The Princess Elia had already given one child to Prince Rhaegar so soon into the union was likely a good sign.

"I had heard that Princess Elia is with child again?"

"I have heard the same from the capital." Wyman nodded, and likely the word had come from here in white harbor "Time will tell, Mother, and Crone willing." That the birth should be easy. That there would be a son. Oh it was true enough that Rhaegar did have a younger brother... but the Defiance at Duskendale had shaken the realm... and what had happened after. No one liked talking about that. It hadn't helped the change in the Stormlands overlordship had passed from Steffon to his first born son either. The realm seemed all the more insecure.

The nobility needed reassurance. Rickard hoped that this disquiet could be used to empower the north it was obvious. Lord Whent wanted to use it to show off the wealth and power of his estates, and hopefully find a match for his daughter. There were others too. Harrenhall was going to be very, very crowded. It was likely to be the biggest social event he had ever attended. A great deal of chance of squabbles and trouble besides.

"So will you be making the run to Volantis again, Myr perhaps?" Wyman questioned as some of the 'extras' cleared way from the hall as a screen had been pulled to grant a measure of privacy, "I mean it four weeks, that kind of turn around."

It was time for business, since of course Lord Manderly was the other part of the financial network which financed the trade voyages in Essos, for his share of course.

-scene break-


	3. Chapter 1 Part B

Chapter 1 Part B

The North.

There was no denying it. White Harbor was much larger, and much, much noisier than Overton was. Of course, Overton didn't do nearly as much trade... and if one were honest it was as much river port as it was harbor... the gods had blessed White Harbor as a fine example of nature. The smaller islands, and broader area also let the fishermen keep their trading out of the eyes of their betters. The same couldn't be said for at Overton, especially with the whaling... you could always smell it when the wind blew and most times besides. It was more than that. There were facets of the river, and where it met the sea, and other geography to consider to what had built up the city into what it was.

White Harbor was awash with color; someone had recently touched up the main buildings with a white wash, but there were also the brightly colored pennants and banners, and the roofs, but especially the people. Most the merchants, and petty nobility dressing to impress... oh it was true that a variety of kings and lords who cleaved harder to the blustering of the Sevens faith had tried to enforce laws on who could wear what and when, but the pious, and the just plain greedy rarely got their way for very long. Such taxes inevitably lapsed, generally kings were talked out of such idiocy by their own advisors after a certain period of it... undue taxes were the surest way to start a peasant revolt. Gulltown was even brighter colored given its even greater share of trade across the narrow sea. No, in truth, if there was a real reason for Overton for being 'drab' it was because most of the town were working folk going about their business of making, mending, or catching. Work clothes wore worn... and normally speaking that was true of White Harbor. Alaric leaned against the balcony, and watched the teeming mass of Manderly's folk. They were dressed to impress the visitors from all over the North, and especially Lord Rickard... even though the Lord of Winterfell wasn't here yet.

Yes in the thousand years since they had fled the Reach the Manderly had done well for themselves, and their original hold of the Wolf's den had been expanded many fold with patents from the Starks. White Harbor town had been chartered, relatively speaking, not long after they had sworn to the Starks, and the city had now grown to eclipse the old fortress. He personally though the use of hte wolf's den as a prison a bit queer, but that was their choice; especially since the sistermen were unlikely to try anything stupid with the Arryns for Overlords.

A man in Manderly colors, a cloak of wool dyed sea green, approached his respite, and Alaric turned, "Lord Bolton, I'm Ser Albar, I was a squire for Ser Morgen when we met two years back, and if you do not recall."

He knew Ser Morgen at least, even if he hadn't seen the knight this trip. The last melee Alaric had participated in the Manderly knight had done an impressive job of trying to batter him into yielding... and only a lucky miss timed swing had kept it from working. "And how is Ser Morgen?"

"Oh, he's well, my lord." The young knight replied, "But its Lord Wyman I've come to call for. Something about ships, I think. We received a big galleon," which was redundant, but Alaric didn't bother with a correction, "In from Braavos this morning." He had thought he had heard word of purple in the harbor, though he had not actually gone down to the docks today.

Braavos was not far by sail from White Harbor. Even in unfavorable conditions it might take two weeks for your average vessel, and in average winds half that, and maybe in favorable ones you might shave a day or two off of that. By comparison overland for that distance, especially with as much, as heavy a cargo, as could be taken by ship would take months."Since its not really a straight path, you could say Braavos is three hundred leagues," Probably closer to three fifty but he didn't want to quibble. "They could have left Braavos as early, say nine days, and made it to White Harbor," Most likely it was closer to a dozen, he'd seen them often enough clustering around the shores of Essos for anti piracy and anti slavery operations... and generally to harass, ussually Lyseni, shipping suspected of either. "Any other ships of interest?"

"No, sorry, only the Braavosi one caught my eye."

He quirked an eyebrow at that, and made his way towards the Merman's hall, with ser Albar dogging his heels... the knight likely not sure if he was supposed to be leading or not. He wasn't overly surprised, the purple hull were an eye catching feature, and most knights were hardly keen to sail.

-scene break-

The Merman Hall did not disappoint, and if one was honest it was likely more richly furnished than even the Seat of the North. Lord Rickard had even gone so far as to say as much, and not in a reproving sort of way of as some lords might have.

He knew they called him 'Old Lord Umber', or they mocked that his name came from the color of mud... it was not somehow new. As if these stripling boys untried by arms were somehow more witty than their fathers. His family had long endured such scorn from the other Great Houses amongst the First Men. At least, He thought with content, he was no _Reaver_.

Yet, for all that, House Stark recognized the utility of those descended from the Bloody Kings who had reigned from the Dreadfort. Part of it was coin, he could admit that at least was fair, Lord Alaric Bolton was by all measure a fair man to the splitting of his coin. Winterfell at the least he knew took its tithe, but it grated him still. Lord Stark seeking the Bolton a Stormlander bride was a galling thing all the same... though there was some relief as well. The boy-lord was a small thing compared to his own heir, Jon. Not that in those five years that he had held his father's lands had he been much a boy even then.

Of course, in the days of William Stark, it had only been Redbeard's invasion that had stopped the wars between their folk. He doubted that those ambitions were quelled, but merely stymied for a time. No, had Bolton wed that Karstark bitch he'd have had both likely of them coming across his eastern borders. Through the hills, and across the Last. His ancestors had fought attacks from either house, but never both. Thankfully though there had only been the one... he still thought there was chance Rickard Karstark might still make the decision to join his forces with the Bolton swords yet. While though, that they were at White Harbor there could be peace in the North for a time.

Rickard Karstark was presently getting pissed on beer, and wine with Brandon Stark. He was hardly the only one for that matter. Most of the young lords were now heavily in their cups. A pepper beer had been produced by the cask by Lord Manderly's firstborn, and was now refilling those same cups. "Have you spoken with him?" He heard Lord Rickard question to Lord Manderly... who were of course perhaps the closest of Stark men... ironic given their southron origins. No the Manderly were not per se 'more loyal' than say the Mormont, or he, but no in this it was Rickard's peculiar southern ambitions that made them closer. The Manderly were loyal men... no what bothered Lord Umber most of all about this was that the topic they discussed was the one he had been ruminating over off and on since word had first reached him.

"Al would likely consider strongly acceding to a southern bride for the sake of the North if nothing else," Their host, Lord Manderly remarked from beside the Lord of Winterfell, and then of course he hemmed and hawwed, "He has supped with Lord Addam Whitehead on several voyages, but house Whitehead has no daughters of marriage age."

Lord Rickard shook his head, "They are on the coast, but I thought perhaps the Lords of Gryfin's roost, the connigntons for their ties to the crown as it is." "I see," "What is it," Lord Stark pressed, and old Lord Umber leaned forward to hear what troubled the lord of Merman Court so at the suggestion made by the Lord of Winterfell's proposed arrangement.

The merman shook his head, regretfully, "It is my Lord the problem of the family, and another house. House Morrigen is another Stormlander house at whom's port he has been known to frequent, and they have territorial disputes with the lords of the roost." It had to be more than that Lord Umber knew, that alone wasn't enough, and sure enough after a long swig of wine Lord Manderly pressed on. "Lord Lester is a loyal friend and it is unlikely Alaric would set aside that friendship for a Griffin's dowry."

He had hope there for a minute that that might have been the end of it, but no... it became clear that Lord Stark was intent on this course. He'd find a good match that tied an influential Stormlander house with the crownlander's ear to a powerful northern bannerman even if he had to go all the way down the list.

-scene break-

Alaric Bolton pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd forgotten how loud Brandon Stark was, and his questions on Lys had been grating to say the least. Gods, and his head was killing him. It could have been worse he could have let Roose not talk him out of bringing him along. He'd have been receiving the nth degree on sobriety from his younger brother, and that would have been embarrassing. Roose though had a betrothal to make nice on, even if Alaric had honestly thought they could have made nice visiting the Riverlands with one another. Still perhaps with Brandon Stark along it was better than way.

He washed his face, and glanced towards the rising sun. Pale eyes burned for a moment into a burnished orange gold, and then faded back to their usual color. "Much better," He groaned, and stretched. Another splash of cold water on his face, and he shrugged off the shirt he had slept in and opened his trunk to retrieve fresh clothes, and pulled his leather boots closer to him.

He hand dropped to his belt a moment before the door barged open and the captain of the evening watch looked out of breath, but not battle ready, "My lord."

Alaric didn't draw the dagger at his side, and didn't bother donning his fresh shirt, "What?"

"We've been apprised that Lord Quellon Greyjoy will be attending." The man let the words slip in... likely he was about them.

Alaric mused quietly for a moment, but held a hand to show he had acknowledged the announcement given to him. Holy shit, "That is a development," He hummed, and nodded schooling his features, and technically this was the sort of news he had directed that he wanted to be informed about immediately. On the other hand Quellon Greyjoy was probably the most sensible man ever produced by his line. Or for that manner of any Iron Born who ever lived... and that was problem with the Iron Born wasn't it. "My, my, well then it really will be the whole seven kingdoms then." Yet, at the same time that meant for certain the gathering of such was a problem, for where Quellon Greyjoy went no doubt would follow less sensible iron born. It was best that he had left Roose to mind the Dreadfort in his absence; though he doubted that was how his brother thought of it. "Anyone else of note attending last minute?" He wondered how many of the Reach's great families would deign to come and mingle with the others. Aegon should have done them all a favor and been a bit more thorough in his pruning of the Reach.

"No, thats really only the big surprise to reach us." The armsmen shook his head, idly brush the amulet he wore bearing his family coat of arms... a rather unfortunate device bearing a snow hare. "Should I send word with our couriers back to Overton?"

"Yes, but its not any particular priority." Goodness knew unlike the more than half a hundred ships the Manderly owned those in the Dreadfort's direct service was less than half that. His father, the previous Lord of the Dreadfort Donnel Bolton had never been particular keen of shipyards, or overseas trade. Roose wasn't likely to ever be so taken with the sea either. The usefulness of whaling, and fishing in addition to overseas trade was something he, Alaric, just couldn't ignore. "I'd prefer to avoid risk harm," even to older ships, that would have to be retired sometime during his rule, "from the Lorathi, or anyone else set against us. Have they put breakfast on yet?" At the shake of the man's head, he exhaled, "I should have expected," He dismissed the man, and when the door was closed pulled on fresh breeches for the day, and through on a clean maroon colored shirt before deciding to make his way from his lodgings.

The Lords' breakfast wouldn't be for hours later, but Lord Manderly outdid even his usual fare, though given the Merman's Court hosted a much larger volume of distinguished gentlemen that made sense. By the time though that had been convened Alaric had already taken care of the limited bureaucracy his holdings required of him while traveling. Not that it stopped the Karstark from grumbling about, "I swear you would think five years of killing pirates would have made you less serious about quill and parchment." They'd spent no insubstantial time together when they'd been fosterlings at Winterfell. The traditional expectation of feudalism and in learning how to administer estates. Rickard Karstark had been large as a child, and now he towered over Alaric's more average height... "So the new barque Sea Wolf, when will she be ready to sail?"

"There were delays," She was slung up in the drydock, and that annoyed him... Helm's Eyes it annoyed him to see that shape in the dock. Perhaps Karstark hadn't paid heed to the letter he'd sent two moons back, "I needed to redraft, and adjust the ballast." He grumbled.

"It was a joke, you know bark, wolf," Karstark shook his head at his own attempt at humor, "I can actually read your letters." He shook his shaggy head again, "Seriously though you said it was delayed, I was just curious. I figured if it was ready you'd have brought it"

His grimace deepened, he'd nearly hanged a score of his senior workmen for the in hindsight completely understandable mistake of getting measurements confused. When Harrier had been constructed he had been available to supervise. While the same hadn't been true for Raptor or Eagle, at least those workmen and shipwrights tasked with the job had been on site for his instructions as Harrier, and he had made assumptions, even though other workmen had been brought on to make up for shifts in labor. "The delay will put us back at least a year further," Rather, from when they had original planned the launch.

"Because you're here?" Karstark ribbed, "and not handling the numbers?"

It wasn't a fair comparison. His previous world had been significantly more nautically inclined, and the design of ships had been something he'd been educated on. He sailed from the sword to the dragon coast, to Maztica, and Kara-tur... all in service to an assembly which did not exist in this world, and whose schools could not propagate knowledge. "Because the Dreadfort," Its lands, "isn't just the coast, and I've other responsibilities." Most of his inland vassals had been fine when his father had been alive, but now his 'peculiar fascination' with the sea was too much of a political problem for them to ignore. There were too many concerns he'd pay too much heed to what his coastal lords thought, and not to them, something that in Donnel's time as suzerain hadn't been a concern. Especially since they likely expected him to go into 'playing sellsword' for the Essossi for a few years. "Why the concern Rickard?"

The big man tugged his beard, and Alaric did take note of the premature gray flecks beginning to set into his... what might have been called salt and pepper, by some, "Oh its, nothing. Just my fisherman have been complaining about Lorathi is all. I didn't want to bother you about, but before I left Winterfell I had gotten word that was still an issue."

"Yes, I've mentioned the problem to Lord Manderly as well," He stopped, "I hadn't realized it had become a problem for everyone." He couldn't precisely recall Lorathi's official line with regards to slavery, but if they were in the pay of Pentos... or another one of the further south free cities... he could guess where individual captains might fall on that position. If they started raiding the northern coasts it would be a problem.

The big man shrugged, "Its just harassment Alaric, but its gotten bloody old." Rickard Karstark had never been a man for the sea, he did not take sailing well, and while there were fine timbers he could cut from his land, most of that portion cut was sold to Braavos rather than used for ships that they would sail, or sell rather than fly Karstark banners. "If I could run them down I'd hang the responsible ones, but the sea is not for me."

"Yes, of that I remember," He spared a look at his boots under the table, "Which is why you just happened to be traveling with Lord Stark's entourage rather than coming to Overton,"

"and I still don't even get out of having to take a boat south." He growled reaching for his beer. "but no what of Roose's betrothal, that little shit is getting married before you?"  
"Its a good match," Surprisingly, there was a lot of promise on both side. It hadn't stopped Roose from reminding... nagging.. him that he had an obligation to wed... but that was one more obligation to add to an ever growing list. "She's a good woman," There were rumors of course that had reached him that Roose had a bastard... likely he had, ironically, gotten drunk and bedded some common wench right after father had died in his grief. Bolton eyes were hard to play off in the North after all. Besides it was true that he had one as well, so there was no question that they could sire heirs, but Alaric had decided to weigh his options. That had resulted in a continuing status as a bachelor... and he doubted he'd make a descision any time soon. "I am happy for him." and he was, the marriage would be good for everyone.

The mug of beer was drained, and sat down, "Ah, such a pity my sister didn't survive that fever. It would have been nice to have you for a brother. Gods we spent so much time in the yards and library of Winterfell, they should carve our names on the entryway to both." That was an exaggeration to be sure... though as Brandon Stark had been fostered in the North's western holds they had spent more time in either place than Winterfell's heir had. Still it was rather a bit much to say they had spent so much time there as to warrant that particular distinction.

It was later in the day, several hours on with everyone distracted when Ser Albar came to fetch him to Lord Manderly for an afternoon snack... though in truth one might have more accurately called it a late which Alaric took an offer of the local Black Beer, and settled. He had forgotten to query about Ser Morgen's wereabouts, but no likely he was involved in some task of the Manderly in their capacities as Warden of the White Knife.

The New Castle... wasn't actually that new. Oh it was true that it was newer than even the current iteration of the Wolf's Den, but it wasn't new. Certainly the Manderly had raised other fortifications since it. Once upon a time the Red King's had held all of this land... but then again the Starks had raised the Wolf's den in this part of the North for a reason; just as his ancestors had had smaller fortifications. "Lord Manderly," He greeted his host. With so many young men of fighting age here, White Harbor's practice yards were bursting, as were its inns, and taverns... and likely the brothels.

There was a clink of flagon as the Lord of White Harbor rang his against the Lord of the Dreadfort, and turned to look out over his domains, "I was speaking with Lord Stark most of last night," It wasn't as if any one was ignorant of that, "Unfortunately the situation with the Umbers is a bit more prickly than I expected it to be,"

"Is it going to be a problem?"  
"Old Lord Umber?" A long pull from the beer, "Yes, probably so. Not while we're abroad mind you, he won't do that. Especially if the wildlings come south of the wall," It had been almost a decade since the last wildling incursion of note. "but if Summer is breaking," There were a lot of Umbers... both the current lord's brothers, as well as his own sons, "if he's been free-er with his words with them,"

"Then I could have his raiders come across the western boundaries." As if his relationship with House Whitehill wasn't prickly enough most days. Alaric gave a long grumbling sigh and sipped his beer look at the ships in the harbor. He could count the sails, and the colored hulls even if most ships in this wind made the ensigns hard to make out. He knew which one from its sail plans, and shape was the anchored form of Raptor. He also saw the purple of the Braavosi ship. "And if Winter comes again they might try anyway."

"Its possible," Wyman conceded, "It should be said that his accusations of some things weren't taken seriously by Lord Stark." As they shouldn't have been. He had fostered at Winterfell for several years, Lord Stark should have known quite a bit better than to believe in those wooly rumors about piracy... "But if he's pushed on it he has lands on the bay of seals, and if the Skagosi prey on his ships, you're just as like to get the blame for it."

It was absurd to think it but it was true. The realistic truth though was that the bay of seals and its multitude of villages were of little concern to him. A naval incursion, and driving from the coast would be completely pointless. Last Hearth was probably one of the best defended first men settlements as far as geographic placement, and anchoring. "I will such in mind," There was little else he could do, "And its hardly the Skagosi I might need to worry about,, it isn't just us, but Karhold as well have reported the Lorathi's behaviors."

"That is trouble." Wyman shook his head even as he spoke the words, "It'll have to wait though at least until we return from the South. We'll leave for Gulltown on the morrow." That would the longest leg to their voyage given that Gulltown sat on the Bay of Crabs side of the Eyrie.

-scene break-

Gulltown was so much busier than Overton. Though White Harbor had the better position, and besides that Volantis was bigger than either, and older... or the capital for that matter. Then again King's Landing was a disgusting shithole that grown up over the last two and a half centuries with very little in the way of planning outside of the core of the royal holdings. One visit was enough for him. There was no point in him taking time to visit the royal holdings. King's Landing, Dragonstone, none of them were worth going out of the way to make port at.

Gulltown was larger than five and half thousand people of Overton by perhaps a factor of four, maybe five depending on the time of the year. This by itself however didn't account for the surrounding lands of the city which supported the town which added to that population. In short Gulltown's supporting area was also more peopled than Overton. He'd been here more than once, but it didn't, truly, produce anything he required.

It was a port to bring goods into Westeros. To that end using it wasn't useful to him. He loosened his grip on the rope, and stepped down to the deck. Perhaps the maesters had a point about winter ending... certainly it had been mild weather these last few months. Even accommodating for the trim and slowing down to keep pace with the large galleys they had made good time. The advantage of sea travel on established sea routes with good mapping. It was true that the Vale Lords would have had an easier time than Northmen going overland. Certainly it would have taken less time than for them to go over land. It was simply much easier to cross a fifty miles by good ship a day than do that on horseback in a week overland... horse travel was expensive. Both had disadvantages of course. The King's Road was honestly a bit of a bad joke... though he supposed when you only had human bandits, and no orks or drow to worry about it was less pressing.

He shook his head, and strolled for where the wharf rats, and longshoreman supervised securing the gantries and planks to load and offload. Idly he spotted Rickard, Karstark, vomiting profusely into the waters. That prompted another shake of his head. They were here though. They'd dine with Lord Jon Arryn, and they would likely set back out by sea the day after tomorrow. Perhaps the day, or two, after that, depending. Still even they stayed a week, unlikely, they would easily be down to the saltpans, and to Darry far far sooner than they could ever hope to accomplish over land. Still even what part of the journey had to be taken overland could be covered to give them a few days of rest at Harrenhall to settle in around the god's eye before the festivities truly opened.

"Don't fucking say it." Rickard grunted as they met on the main avenue of the dock still looking quite green around the gills. He muttered something about how Alaric's mother must have been a seal, that had it been anyone else Alaric probably would have been less inclined to ignore, but did so... Rickard glanced at the satchel, "Seriously?" While they would be feasting in Gulltower it was quite likely they would be expected to find lodgings at some respectable inn. Obviously had they had relatives or kindred as some of the party they could have stayed with them. It would be interesting to see how Lord Whent housed them for his great tourney given the state of the Hoare fortress.

"I have quite a lot of work to do."

"How, how do you possibly have work to do?" Rickard took a long pull from his belt flask, "I thought you said you finished adjusting the Wolf's draft, and that they were working on it."

And he had, but even as comparatively scarcely populated as the North was compared to the Vale there were things to do. Only the Iron Islands had less of a population, and admittedly significantly so since once their whole realm had included wide swathes of the present Riverlands and other parts, than the North. There were no cities like those found in Essos in the North. The Reach, and the Riverlands were the most geographically, that was size wise, comparable to the North and even they were far smaller, but both had significantly more populated lands... and of course why wouldn't they? They, both, enjoyed well watered lands with fertile soils. They had the farms to support teeming masses of people. Like the vale though there were still only semi pacified clans who held to the old ways from before the time when Feudal governance had emerged on Westeros's shores. The further into the mountains, the valleys, the hills, and dales, you went the more likely you were to find such rustic folk. With the North's great houses so thoroughly tied to one another it was really the only source of semi frequent conflict from within the vast lands of Westeros's largest land.

All the same it wasn't the same degree as the substantially more cantankerous clans folk of the Vale, but it did pose a repetitive problem in the inland reaches of his demesne. It was part of the advantage of settling a keep for Roose in the hills across the river from the Dreadfort's own. It was that task he was speaking of here.

"Are you serious? You know you can just clobber them right?" Rickard shook his head, "I mean when I took the coronet after my own father passed. That was how I did it. How he did it in his day, and for that matter how your father did it. Its about tradition, its not even about a serious fight."

Which was true it was more about symbolic demonstration of martial prowess, than anything. "I am aware of that," Alaric replied. "And for that matter it was how I dealt with it," When he had also been inducted to his own coronet. For of course the annals of his name the Essosi adventure he had partaken before his succession to the Coronet had helped a great deal. The Northman did not reave south during Winter as they had in old days, but the parred had been able to be drawn, and that had been useful in unifying those western clans sworn to the Dreadfort. Unfortunately, now that he thought on it, those likely contributed to certain untoward rumors.

"You still should have dragged me along for that," Rickard growled, "Oh shut it," He snapped throwing a dirty look back towards the harbor as the voyage across the Narrow sea was pointed out to him, "Once we were across and ashore I'd have been fine."

"I didn't go into the disputed lands," He hadn't even gone over there to play mercenary as some of them thought, but that rumor helpfully explained the loot without having to explain its source, "to build a rapport with my tribal vassals," Since of course at that time he wasn't Lord Bolton, and the Dreadfort's lands were not his to rule. "in fact I expected to be able to mount several," Dozen, even for that matter. "More voyages before I might need to take up the coronet." Still Donnel Bolton had died as he lived, and that was how the way of things, and in all honesty Roose was of the opinion that they needed to make a more permanent demonstration of martial overlordship. "I still believe that the prospect of a castle there secures my western hinterlands, particularly from other domains."

"The Umbers are bunch of bellowing buggers aren't they?" He shook his head, and mounted the horse, which underneath his great bulk looked smaller than it had before he had swung himself up into the saddle. "My uncle is going to complain," He growled under his breath, and if anyone was really being fair it wasn't as if building any new fortifications was something to ignore either... or expanding existing ones. "Not that he doesn't already."

Finding an Inn wasn't hard; not with the layout of the harbor as it was. This was after all not his first trip to Gulltown. The bigger irony of course, to Alaric's amazement, lay in that Brandon Stark, and Robert Baratheon didn't immediately hit it off. If anything it seemed as if their vociferous similarity was enough to repel each as if like magnets. Perhaps that was why Robert, and Eddard got on so well. They complemented one another rather than being the same. Of the foster brothers, Eddard did seem more like Lord Arryn in temperament.

Maybe Lord Stark would see to finally rebuilding Moat Caillin since he had three sons and all. That would have seemed prudent especially if he wanted more in depth relations with the South, and expansion of the only overland route into the North... or the only safe and regular one... would have been good for the whole southern expanse of the North. He sighed and leaned back into the plush couch of the room. His ledger was spread out before him.

A relatively simple enchantment allowed him to update his master copy back in the Dreadfort's Red King Tower's vault. In theory he could have used it to communicate with Roose, and the event of emergency they had discussed it, but it was strictly an emergency measure. Give that he could not presently cast permanency, as he had been able to do so in his previous life. His magic had been returning, but he had no idea when he might regain the next level, and doubted it would be less than for years still. Still the rituals he could cast by taken time were useful.

Even if someone were able to get ahold of this ledger it would have done them no good. He had written it specifically in Imaskari. In part that choice had been made since Roose could not read the, Draconic, High Tongue, prompting him to not even bother to try Seldruin, and attempts at the temple dialect of Supernal based Mulhorandi had given him, Roose that was, a headache. It was mostly a precaution against non magical intrusion. Any wizard of the first could have translated it with since Imaskari was not inherently magical. He had avoided the giant tongue since allegedly they lived beyond Bran the Builder's wall. Also the Umbers were alleged, along with some other Northern houses, to have giant blood in them so that had eliminated that choice as well. No, given Old Lord Umber's mounting hostility it was better not to risk that.

Roose spoke several languages, more if you counted, the mostly academic, high Valyrian in addition to the gutter languages of the Free Cities. It was not however his brother's forte, and there just wasn't time.

At least not without a temple complex to facilitate a baccalaureate education as he had received in his first life. Valyrian and its debasements reminded him of Thorass, though it didn't help Alaric any to translate the gutter valyrian of the free cities. He had had to learn those the mostly old fashioned way. Admittedly that had been a small advantage to fostering for a time at Winterfell. Even before the current Lord Stark had hoped to deepen ties with the rest of the Kingdoms Winterfell had had a rather impressive library going back several centuries; the one before that had unfortunately burned during a castle fire about eight hundred years before the conquest. To the point it was said it had likely contributed to the King who had Kneeled choosing to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.

There were things to consider regarding the Starks. Though they were not Kings in name, they still rules plenty of land directly to claim such... and add their banner lords... and he could see Lord Stark's point on it. The Stormlands weren't a bad choice... he'd benefit from it. Any goodmen he gained from a union were unlikely to burden him with taxes when he used their harbors, especially if he came with gifts. That would help... so it wasn't a bad idea. Still there was time, there would be time for this later, once of course the Grand Tourney was done. Plenty of time for such things.

-scene break-


	4. Chapter 1 Part C

Notes: I use '-scene break-' principally for my own editing convenience, years and years ago before uploading started stripping out some of the formating I used another divider line to break up skips in time and location and thats why its there.

Now, I get that Part B was a bit slow, but I needed to set up and foreshadow enough of the background events as it pertains to the North's internal politics. Obvious from an outside perspective everyone is aware that Robert's Rebellion is approaching, but it is a very short war (by calendar length, which is admittedly somewhat ... really very unrealistic given the scale of Westeros) and its knock on effects create its own problems. In my current drafting I have decided given the pace of the war to keep the canonical time line of events for Robert's rebellion.

-scene break-

He had avoided drinking as much in order to avoid a repeat of the after morning of Lord Stark, and companions had arrive at White Harbor. He was hard wired to wake with the approaching dawn, and that strength throughout the day was a supernatural fortification lasted until dusk. That boon had killed plenty of his order in thousands of years. It hadn't been easy. Brandon Stark, and the Lord of Storm's End were prolific drinkers and had seemed quite intent on making a spectacle to upstage the other the night before they set out from Gulltown. Thankfully Lord Rickard had insisted Brandon travel aboard a Manderly galley, while the Lord of the Vale had both of his charges aboard his own vessel.

It was true that being moderate had helped, but not enough. He still had a headache, which was still better than some of those now dreading the ships they road upon. The bay of crabs though was quite mild though. The seasonal winds were quite enjoyable even... though Rickard Karstark was currently disagreeing with that. "Darry will be no problem." The navigator remarked to him as he lazed enjoyably against the sun's rays.

Darry was not a particularly large castle, but at least it kept a godswood. Of course with so many northern lords Alaric was doubtful he would get much in the way of silence with such a number of them, especially those of his age. The bigger question was how they would make final approach to Harrenhall. Lord Harroway's Town, though the Harroway were extinct, was one option. Sixty years ago before a particularly nasty flood had jumped the river they could even have taken a barge down old canal works down to Harrenhall directly from the town. Unfortunately the aforementioned flood had ruined the works and it had been much to expensive to justify trying to rebuild given the impoverished state of the lesser lords. Without a command from their regional overlord, the Tullys, or higher no one was as like to try so many years later. The expense was simply too great given the short term returns. For that matter Alaric doubted any such command would have prompted any kind of haste to comply with the order in the hopes that it would be rescinded in short order.

No, they would most likely dismount at Darry pitch camp, and then ride the remainder of the way by horseback... perhaps even with Lord Darry himself, and his company. Though they couldn't compare to the power of the Whents, they were quite powerful as far as riverlander nobles went with houses sworn to them, as they in turn swore to the Fish. The arrival of the Riverland's overlord was another question.

He watched the waves of the bay of crabs lap at the sides as they cut through the waters, "Its not even that bad,"

"Shut up." Rickard Karstark croaked, some of the further away men chanced to chuckle at him. He was too weakened by it to do more than glower at present. It was probably not even just the seas, which were tame, but rather last night's drink as well. Going inside the decks had not helped, he simply complained it was too stuffy and began to overheat.

To help alleviate this Alaric had joined him on the upper deck, and had briefly worked from a secured desk on what drafting work he could do, which actually only made Karstark feel more miserable. Beside him, Alaric, his companion hound snoozed quite contentedly in the warm sun as the Lord of the Dreadfort watched the convoy. The Manderly had provided, indeed freely, for the passage for northern folk to travel with Lord Stark's party aboard their galleys. Lord Arryn had done similar for those of his banner-men who had come with him. Most of those folk simply did not have ships, whether they were inland lords or coastal ones. As a result they were perhaps all told a dozen ships to them most only moderate sized vessels. Not all would travel past the Saltpans even to simplify the passage as the waters narrowed.

He glanced at the Navigator and to the white knuckles of Rickard Karstark clutching the rail, "Are you quite certain?"  
Caird grimaced and muttered an incomprehensible string of profanity, "I can promise we can get to Darry," With a shake of his head he pushed onwards, "I can't help some people never getting their sea legs."

"SOME OF US WERENT BORN TO SEALS!" Karstark roared defensively after the tide wave slopped the side of the ship drenching him. Even his horse was taking the trip better than he was. It was the transport of those same horses, and carriages which was actually the biggest burden. Both in the process of unloading, and loading them as well as feeding them even in the course of a short voyage.

"We will be to the saltpans soon." He called to the demand of how much longer, prompting a 'we'd better'. The Saltpans, the town itself, was quite small compared to some of his expectations. Of course that was easy to explain it lacked a charter for the town which might have permitted the merchants to expand and enrich the region. Thus it was only a small port unused to much traffic compared to say Maidenpool, even so Alaric counted two Braavosi ships at anchor in it. He found that a bit queer all the same, but they were Braavosi ships. They went where they wanted.

Karstark could not get ashore soon enough nearly barreling over a septon and his accolyte in the rush to make it muddy shores of the bank. They broke for lunch on the banks to dine on crab, and fish as was typical of the fare in this part of the riverlands. Had there been time to prepare anything fancy it would have been swan or such. He knew the reach ate pigeons as a common dish, and apparently Yi-Ti. Supposedly squab had been served in the Valyria, and Ghis of old. To that extent he was given to understand it remained rather popular in the crowlands as well, or at least the capital and the lands sworn to Dragonstone.

He was glad he hadn't been born further south than this. There might not have been much of a sailing tradition in the land, but being of the north gave him an acreage to his name that was hard to beat even if it was relatively unpeopled. He probably had more cattle in his entire domain than his entire demesne had people. Of course the First Men had been raising cattle for... what near on eight thousand years... the maester at winterfell, when he'd been a boy, had claimed it was the oldest form of wealth... while Lord Stark had presided over a case of cattle raiding by some collection of clansmen against another clan. He didn't actually remember how it had all ended up working out, but Lord Stark hadn't been very thrilled with the whole feuding between his vassal clans.

-scene break-

For all of the Wealth the Darry were happy to demonstrate, it really was a small castle. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it was well built, and would be easy to garrison, but the Dreadfort, in admittedly its current configuration was much larger. Of course his ancestors had repeatedly rebuilt, and expanded the fortress until its curtain walls actually surrounded the hills from which it took its name. He had himself planned to expand the castle in due time, but the Darry seemed to have contented themselve with more material trapping of wealth and prestige... that he had voiced that out loud. It wasn't his place too, and he barely shared more than cursory bread and salt with Lord Darry, as befitted a house in royal favor. No despite not being a Lord Paramount House Darry were their hosts, and were content to monopolize the time of Lord Stark, Lord Arryn, and Lord Baratheon. Everyone else was more or less left to their own devices. As far as snubs went it was hardly malicious.

To be honest of course similar treatment, though likely not as brusque was to be expected at Harrenhal. To be fair to Lord Darry with how small his keep was he had narry the space to hold so many Northern lords, never mind those of the Vale besides. Harren's grand castle, ruined it might be, was many times the size of the Dreadfort in expanse, and there would be abundant space upon its fair grounds for the tourney goers to pitch far grander tents for those who chose to. That would mostly be men participating at competition of arms. It was after all somewhat of a tradition. Thankfully jousting was not a Northern tradition. There would be northerners, predominantly those who worshipped the Southern faith of the Seven, who would joust, but most would not. The melee would be the primary event. It was there likely if anywhere that a Northern company would most shine. The axe throw, a hold over from the days the riverlords had been ruled not by Andals, but by first men, was another possibility. Though if Quellon Greyjoy was indeed attending it would not be a surprise to see an Iron Born take that event. All of this would be spread over some ten days of festivities... the bulk of which would most likely be dominated by the joust. The sheer volume of Southerners who would compete for the glory of winning it potentially even raised the question that would be enough time to have all that in itself would be a prestige bringing event, and likely further enrich the coffers of attending merchants, which would in turn of course enrich lord Whent. It was part of how nobles recouped some of the cost for holding such lavish festivities after all.

"You wouldn't guess that during the Dance a dragon burned all of this." Dragons, yes, it was curious that. Still he pointed up, and Falmouth followed his finger, "thats right he did try to recreate Harrenhall didn't he?" He in this case had been Aemond Targaryen and his dragon Vhagar of the Greens during the Dance of Dragons.

Of course during that conflict a hundred and fifty years ago House Stark and House Darry had been united in the cause of the Blacks. The Hour of the Wolf. He was in no way doubting that, that history had been reminded to Lord Darry by Lord Stark. He doubted Lord Darry would listen given the royal privlege enjoyed by the Plowman's keep.

He lowered his hand, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Falmouth noticed the shift in his liege lord's body language and dropped the ale he'd been carrying. It had already been mostly empty anyway so only a little ran out into the grass as the man's hand dropped to his, mostly ceremonial, gilded short sword. "What, what is it?"

Alaric's pale eyes shifted amongst the inter spaced tents, even though his own hands had yet to go for a weapon. He couldn't place it, "Stay on your toes, and do keep an eye out for any out of place Essosi." At this point he was no longer convinced it was just Lorathi they needed to be on the look out for. Attacking in Gulltown would have made more sense. Darry wasn't well suited to receive any more visitors, and Lord Darry, tax revenues besides, was none too keen on cheese mongers, spice peddlers, and other merchants from across the narrow sea. The saltpans was likewise much less important. Gulltown would have made more sense to attack... or Harrenhall... at say during the melee. He thought, painfully, back to the long black sword he had brought back from Essos, and yet was too large to effectively wield in his style. He really should have pursued its sister, but it still would have been a magical sword. It though was locked in the Vault's of Red King's Tower at the Dreadfort, as opposed to slung over his shoulder where he might put it to use.

"I'll post guards." Falmouth responded, leaving his mug where it had fallen eyes narrowed in his long weather blotched face. He hadn't drawn his sword, but he kept a hand where he could do so to put the very functional edge of the otherwise artful tool to use.

That would have been more reassuring if most of the men hadn't been drinking. If they had brought more men. In truth though he'd been more concerned with back home in his absence given the Lorathi's suspicious activity. Putting armor on would have looked suspicious still. It would have been different if he had come into this world with the possessions of his past life, but what few magical items he was able to recreate were few and far between, and more than anything expensive to create. They were consuming, and of limited use when he didn't have access to the resources available of his first life.  
He wasn't sure what would be worse the fact that Darry lacked the Inns to support this congregation of the nobility. Or the fact that even if it had it would have difficult to effectively employ guards in this situation. Harrenhall would be an even bigger issue, for as large as this great party was, it would be paltry compared to the Reach, with Mace Tyrell in attendance, never mind all seven kingdom's contributing visitors. The crowds would be massive, any attempt to screen them would be all but impossible. Oh, and of course now, here came Wyman Manderly hoping to talk about Silversmiths, which was in any other time and place was the kind of skilled labor whose wares could be turned to arcane purpose that he would have been happy to indulge a conversation about... just not here, and not now.

Alaric looked around, and considered. He at least had some protection, he mused, staring at his hand before buffing the ringed fingers against his padded jacket. That too would offer him protection but any assassin would likely try for less protected spots, and might come with poison even if that would be useless. He contemplated the discarded goblet Falmouth had left lying there, and shrugged, walking towards Lord Manderly, maybe he could get this over with quickly.

"How goes it?"

He gave a Gallic shrug, "How did Lord Darry take things?"

"He has no more time for me than he does for you, friend." Wyman chortled, and offered a roll of cheese, "Its too bad I have some of the finest silversmiths in the east." They were called the 'Westerlands' for a reason... "I must avail myself of Lord Stark to hope to entreat on my behalf now."

They wandered, meandering through the camps, and tents until they reached an open air beer garden and a small bench table that was somewhat further spaced from the larger longer tables. No doubt Darry's steward or one of his subordinates had been responsible for this. At least they were effective at their tasks. "Yes, Lord Jon Arryn has some fine silversmiths as well."

"Aye, true that is." Wyman conceded flagging for beer from a passing matron. As they received his dawdling drawl covered the specifics of industry, and its minutae. Alaric was mostly familiar he was after all a patron of it, he needed those silversmiths to craft the basics he employed for various finished goods. "So what would you do?"

Not trade with House Darry, but then again he had no reason to, "Marriage is the only real breakthrough I could see, Wyman. Darry enjoys too much royal favor to get to them by any other means that I can see." The Lord of White Harbor nodded and agreed that he too felt that that was the situation he found himself in, though he did have two young sons of marriageable age.

Of course that was a reminder that he didn't need. His bachelorhood was a topic of gossip, but at the same time it wasn't as if he could sire heirs. He contemplated the beer brought to their table, and then set it back down. "I don't know if truly Darry is a sound option, if you could marry Wendel off though," Royal favor was a heady drink, especially it seemed for House Darry.

-scene break-

It had been several days now. There speed had been hampered by the wagons, and to a lesser extent the carriages of the small court of highborn ladies. It was mainly the baggage train's wagons. There were some things that one just couldn't purchase locally... or didn't wish to pay the inflated southern prices for.

After... the whatever one wished to call it... he couldn't have been more glad to get away from Darry... he'd been across the Narrow Sea plenty. He had spent time in all of the southern free cities of note, and camped in the disputed lands, and minor townships... and... Harrenhall yet loomed in the distance as massive a specter as he remembered it being. He had seen the meaning of those walls truly in only one other place. Oh yes that blackened mass, and the remnants of Vhagar's fire at Darry was something, but this, here... here, and the Black Walls of Volantis were the true reminder of how far the Dragon Riders had fallen. The freehold was no more, and the Targaryens were shadows of even Aegon's power.

He eased back on his reins, and stared at the expanse spreading out ahead of the northern banks of the God's Eye. Lord Whent's Marshalls, and their deputies were a mixture of different men. Some clearly had been selected for breeding, others for capacity to keep unruly drunks in line, and others for their ability to count. And some of the fair keepers for traditions sake, "Lord Bolton, its been some years," He had attended a fair at Harrenhall indeed some years ago, and likely the only reason he had been remembered was that he was a Northern Lord not named Stark or Manderly. He had actually come so as to not have to sail all the way to the Westerlands to entertain his curiosity on certain mining expertise. In a world without dwarves he simply didn't have the expertise he had needed at hand to discuss draining water out of underground mines. The fair had actually only been of limited help, and the free cities hadn't yet turned anything of use to his inquiries. "Do I have your pledge of good conduct, sir?"

"You do," He replied to mustachioed knight, and accepted the offered pass. The ride on lead into Harrenhall's expansive fairground. Lord Whent had indeed out done himself. This was much more impressive than any he had previously attended. Fairs, of a regular and multitude nature, were primarily a Reach event, the North was simply too spread out to warrant such gathering regardless of economic benefits. As a result it still remained largely a southron past time. Oh celebrations of the longest day of the year was generally a fair worthy event but nothing, nothing at all like this. It was everything he had expected yet written larger than life. There were streamers and banners from distant reaches of the whole realm. He had to a degree expected that, but his expectations versus the reality of all of the tents pitched was something else...

He was certain Lord Whent had sent personalized invitations to select Lords, and very likely among those were those to the Lord Paramounts including his own. Most however would have been made aware of the tourney by the declarations made to the Realm last year in, and had been circulated around Westeros in the months leading up. It was no small thing to call lords great and small from across the realm.

"How'd you manage to avoid to the hassle?" Karstark grumped, if quietly riding up to his right side having finally managed to extricate himself from the crowd and presumably the fair marshals. "I thought they'd never let me in."

Despite being perhaps bare months, three at most, apart in age they cut wildly different figures. Rickard Karstark was a beast of a man. The premature coloring though only further called that into question. One would not have guessed Alaric was the older of the two, and with the greying even if the lines were not there one might guess Karstark were ten or fifteen years his senior. Northern fashions tended significantly more rustic, and Karstark's grooming... or lack of... coupled with the massive sword sheathed across his shoulder painted a totally different picture.

By comparison Bolton's tended to leave well manicured corpses. Donnel Bolton even with his drinking had a face that seemed ageless even with his modest beard. Alaric already showed those features, and Roose by all indications now that the last of the baby fat was fading was sure to have the same trait. In short Rickard Karstark looked rougher than Alaric did, and was a bigger more rough and tumble appearance, even if he wasn't necessarily particularly boisterous ussually; that was in a stranger's company.

"Its fine, really." He glanced back to cadre of banner men, smallfolk, and other retainers taking directions from valets. The tournament propper would not yet open for another few days. Indeed there would like be hundreds more arriving, both noble, and small folk alike to partake in the events and some might not even make it until after the formal start of events. Such things were known to happen when one became delayed upon the road.

"So why'd you they let you through so quick?" The suspicion was back harder now.

"I have visited Harrenhall before," One of like a few Northern Lords, likely to have done so, especially in his age group, "though I admit I stayed in an Inn along the God's Eye last time." Though he had also dined with the other nobles who had come at Lord Whent's table. That would not happen this time, he knew that quite well. Important he might of been in the order of precedence of the North, for in his veins flowed the blood of the Red Kings of old. That meant little here in thoroughly Andalicized lands south of the Neck. "Pitching near me?"

"You are going to be on the field?"

"The melee,"

"Obviously," Karstark grunted to the deadpan delivery, "I know some of the western lords intended to partake of the joust's lists."

Alaric mused on that, but no, "Wyman Manderly as well." At his age... it was probably not the best idea. He wasn't entirely confident in how healed that leg was. Then again though they held to the seven, and were quite acclimated to northern culture the Manderly had original come from the Reach. Their traditions, and those of their heavy cavalry were more inline with the knights of heavy lances than any other Northern great house. Still one of his sons, most likely Wendel who was more muscle than fat, was better suited the joust. Even then he doubted any of the Manderly knights would last through two, maybe three tilts. "And his sons, Wyllis, and Wendel."

Rickard pulled a glove off in order to scratch his brow, "I suppose that follows. Wait, How do you have a place to pitch already?" He demanded as they approached a stretch of grass with men in the Dreadfort's livery, and a banner with Alaric's personal device.

"How else did you think I knew Quellon Greyjoy would be in attendance?" Karstark shrugged his massive shoulders in bewilderment, and muttered something under his breath, "What was that?"

"I said I didn't know." That certainly wasn't what he had said, it might have been what he had meant, and at his inquiring narrow of eyes the Lord of House Karstark straightened clearing his throat, "Alright I mean, I said Crow's eyes alright."

He understood the expression.

Greenseers, Skinchangers... Alaric he had never actually met one, but they were legends amongst the northern folk, especially those who kept the old gods. Supposedly the Great Houses, the blood of Northern Kings carried with it the gift to see through the eyes of animals the way the old gods were supposed to see through the faces upon the trees. It sounded to Alaric like Druidic magic, but he had yet to meet one of the fabled Greenseers... or a giant in this world for that matter. Or a dragon... though he definitely would have preferred to avoid any dragons this life for as long as was possible... they were too much trouble. "No. I'm not a greenseer." What he was not going to admit at this point was that even though magic had nothing to do with knowledge regarding events, no that was for all its utility mundane. Even in the face of magic it wasn't something to overlook. "I didn't use magic to know Lord Quellon was coming to this, just men here." He shrugged, and gestured around.

Most likely given what he'd seen. The iron born had sailed around and up through the Narrow Sea, into Blackwater Bay, and up the Rush, before sailing into the God's Eye. Say what one would about Longboats, but they had had advantage to taking the rivers. It was still a voyage to be sure going from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow one meant sailing south and around the arm of Dorne. It also meant that the Ironborn could have avoided making the riverlanders all uncomfortable by sailing down the trident, and coming overland.

"So, Lord Brandon thought to hit the town?"

... they were doomed... he could already see it. Brandon Stark, and Robert Baratheon were as like to paint the town red while trying to one up the other. Alaric Bolton fixed Rickard Karstark with a flat look and sighed, "There is a lake side tavern near here," It had been his lodging during the fair, though he suspected given the longships it'd probably have iron born in it being so close to the wharf. He'd take that though than having to deal with what he was expecting this to turn into. Still iron born aside it might give breathing room from whatever trouble the wild wolf, and the Stag Lord might seek to conjure.

-scene break-

Brandon Stark, first born of Rickard Stark Lord of Winterfel, took more of the wine. It was southern swill of course, but it was drink all the same. He couldn't fathom what could possibly cause his brother's friendship with that oaf Robert Baratheon... but that was Ned's problem. Ned, and his foster brother were in another beerhall tonight anyway. He had hopeed actually to drag Benjen along with him, but apparently father was hoping to find something for his youngest son to do that might advance the house's goals... Brandon snorted into the now empty chalice.

That was going to need to be addressed. There was a lot that was going to need to be addressed. Lyanna had introduced to him to some diminutive cranogmen... what was his name... he thought about it... but left it as his wine was refreshed. Then of course was father's pressure to enter the lists, which in itself didn't bother him... it was being pushed to do it that bothered him. He leaned heavily on the table and swirled the red drink. He supposed it had to do with his betrothed, and her father the lord of fish being here. Pft. She was okay he supposed... certainly she was at least easy on the eyes... but the introductions had been painfully staid. She was boring. It was as simple as that.

There was a clamor from the entrance, and with a snap the heir to winterfell's head snapped upwards and around to the disruption. Then he rolled his eyes, and snorted again. The Frey were little more than up jumped merchant rats. Rats, they bred like rats. He chuckled to himself at the notion. For Brandon Stark that was another problem with marrying the Tully girl... Hoster Tully was weak.

Father's admonition to stay out of trouble had long since fled him. No, that wasn't quite right... just that it wasn't his immediate concern any longer. Brandon Stark contemplated the wine, and then back to the swaggering squires. Yes... yes tonight's next course of entertainment had arrived. Then perhaps a bit of sport after... he gestured to some of his companions, and for more wine.

Notes: I had originally intended for this chapter to be longer, principally because I had intended to spend more time dealing with events at the Plowman's keep, to that end this chapter may be revised with scenes that were outlined but scrapped.


	5. Chapter 1 Part D

-scene break-

This was unavoidable. There was little helping this. Oberyn was the sort of rascal who his brother Doran felt the, completely understandable, need running around constantly busy. It was all in the hopes of keeping his younger brother out of trouble. He supposed it worked... to an extent.

His grimace deepened, "Lets go with that." Alaric agreed hastily as Oberyn Martell grinned from over his goblet. "As to it, the Disputed lands there was quite a bit of fighting, and much Dothraki screaming." He hastily waved for drink... gods he needed it. The last severals days of dealing with Brandon Stark was plenty for him, and if that were not bad enough then there was Robert Baratheon. He suspected that Riverlanders already suspected them of being oversexed, coin loose, and far too close at hand. "I was very busy." He gripped the refilled mug, and sipped it.

The Dornishman gave an airy sigh and preened, despite being a few years older than both Rickard, and Alaric he looked much closer to Alaric's age. It gave the appearance that the former officer of the second sons, was Rickard's junior. "You should have stuck around, there was plenty of fighting that season. I'd have appreciated those bowmen of yours sticking around. The Second Sons were very busy after that idiot magister decided to piss off the Dothraki,"

Alaric had kind of expected that had been what was going to happen. It was also why those years ago he had left quickly after. He hadn't wanted to be put into a fight between the two sides. So he had chosen to leave. He certainly wans't going to risk men sworn to him because of some idiot merchant biting off more he could chew with some horse lord... gods he had had enough of that sort of thing in Kara-tur. That had actually been the main, driving, reason he had had for leaving as hastily as he did.

Rickard Karstark however thought all of that sounded like a jolly old time. He had never quite allowed Alaric to get away with the fact that he had plotted the voyage without consulting any of his peers and sailing across the narrow sea, and charting into the disputed lands for an adventure, and the pursuit of wealth. The Karstark had always made a point of habitually reminding him that the next time he did that to bring him along... ignoring the whole 'sailing across the narrow sea' bit as a triviality. Alaric had repeatedly expressed doubts that it would have been so easy. "Are you jousting?"  
Oberyn's grin widened, as he puffed out his chest, "Of course, my sister Elia will be in attendance." The princess had given birth to a son that... in such a typically Targaryen fashion had been named Aegon. If he managed to survive to take the crown he'd be the sixth Aegon to sit the Iron Throne. It was a little surprising after such a difficult pregnancy at birth that prince Rhaegar had brought her from the capital. "I shall win the joust, and crown her queen of love and beauty. Why are you jousting?"

Rickard Stark snorted into his beer, and began to half joke half laugh. "I am not," Alaric muttered glowering at the other Northman. "The melee."

"I'll be in that, too. We could team up again." Oberyn wasn't quite so unwelcome in the Stormlands as he was the Reach, and between the Reach and Dorne's coastal fiefs there were always a number of tourneys of small to medium size to distract oneself with.

"Rickard are you alright?" the man coughed a few times, and nodded, "Will that be good with you?"

"Oh sure, yeah the Dorishman can tag along." He had clearly been about to add something to that, but decided to stop while he was ahead having met Oberyn's eyes. That was probably wise.

Seven sided melees were an older style. They'd fallen out of practice because of the complexity and size required for such. Of course tournaments of this size were relatively rare so it was... bound to be a cluster fuck. He knew for a fact Brandon Stark had already put together a rather impressive number of men from the North's western families... naturally since that was where he had been fostered. Eddard Stark... the second son... had his foster brother, and the Reed heir from the Neck. He had no idea how that friendship had developed.

He wasn't surprised Rhaegar Targaryen was here, "My good brother," Oberyn scoffed, "No the melee is not something he'll as like participate in, maybe the minstrels contest. He can wield a lance, sure but the melee no." The resulting conversation was dominated as... well as only a brother in law could explain his ties to a crown prince that had largely decided war on an apparent whim. It had also the unintended point of highlighting the Darry master of arms of the Red keep. No wonder Lord Darry had been so smug having one of his kinsmen training the crown prince was certain a feather in the clan cap. "Regardless Rhaegar is a relatively swordsmen. Arthur goes easy on I think because they're such close friends."

"You never go easy on me." Rickard grunted.

Alaric glanced at him in a mix of exasperation, which to be fair that wasn't true, he had never used magic against Rickard in any of their bouts, but there were other factors in play, "and you're a handspan taller than me," He waved to the sword, "And there is that, I can't go easy on you." Never mind Karstark, besides those things, didn't know the meaning of the word 'restraint', when it came to swinging steel, blunted or not.  
"Its okay, someone has a bad habit of breaking spears." Oh great now there were two of them... "Still how was this trip to Volantis for you, I was going to introduce you to my sweet Nym. I was visiting her mother, but I just couldn't seem to catch you."

Alaric had no idea what Oberyn was talking about, "Yes, I was very busy this trip." there had been a dispute over some bolts of silk between some of his acquaintances, and that had quickly gotten out of hand, and had derailed some of his own plans. Volantenes like most of the free cities had a practice of dueling. On the other hand it had let him pick up those books he had ended up taking home for Roose. As fond as he was of silk there were occasions he really felt like throttling people.  
"And?"  
He stared at the two men, "And?"

"You said you were very busy, in Volantis. That usually is your attempt to change the subject from what is a juicy good story." Karstark declared poking him in the chest, "Come on spill."

"Was it a duel?" Oberyn needled.

"Not at all. It was really a simply tedious dispute between two of my acquaintances." Karstark clearly didn't believe him... for some reason... it was true he regularly sailed for Essos. His younger brother certainly complained enough about those voyages, but really. Naturally Karstark decided to assume someone had gotten... possibly lots of someones. It was Volantis, that didn't happen... in public. Even Oberyn wasn't convinced and he should have been personally aware of just how staid the volantene old bloods were.

There was an abrupt crash from across the path, and Alaric was on his feet in an instant. Pale eyes roved in search for the source the disturbance. Rickard Karstark jumped up a little slower a part of his action likely to mirror his compatriot, but also to avoid uprooting the table, and Oberyn followed in a far smoother controlled gesture, but he had gone so far as to quietly palm a dagger from somewhere.

"Watch where you're going!" The voice's accent was Reacher. The younger man's build was definitely that of a Reacher lordling, from face to the armor and costume he wore... and those brightly gilded golden spurs must have been new he knew that for sure from the way the looked. It was also, helped that this wasn't the first time he'd seen this kind of thing play out.

Benjen Stark looked irritated, but the small cranogman sprawled on the ground didn't appear hurt so much as stunned from the collision. It was Lady Lyanna Stark immediately launched into a tirade. Oberyn sheathed the blade, which thankfully hadn't been noticed, and being the closest started to walk forward smiling. They should have been more worried by the smile than the blade.

That unfortunately worked out about as well as Alaric had expected to. The Reach brats just turned around and insulted Oberyn. Not surprising give both his history and the fact they couldn't have been so blind as to miss the rampant direwolf device both Starks were wearing. There was too much bad blood between the Reacher houses and Dorne, real or imagined slights building over centuries.

"I'll have you-"

"You'll what?" The edge on the words stopped the younger man's squawking in his tracks.  
"Aye," Rickard agreed even as he loomed over the two boys even though one, admittedly, was taller than Alaric was. "Knights," Karstark probably was thinking, 'piss on that' it was obvious at least from the look in his eyes, but he didn't give voice to it. "He's a knight." He jerked a thumb in the direction of Oberyn, "We're lords of our fathers lands, from their fathers, and their fathers dating back to the Dawn. What are you but some Gardener by blow, eh?"

The insults continued to trade back and forth even as Lady Lyanna helped the Cranogman, back to his feet, and until a marshal of the fair ordered them to pipe down, and disperse. That got them away but not before a snide 'we'll see you on the field' challenge had been given. He expected they meant the joust, not the melee field... or perhaps they did mean the latter, perhaps their balls were that swollen and they'd try for that.

If anything, if they didn't well... most as like chances were good some other squire, or freshly minted knight would cause trouble. Still if they were serious about trying to meet them on the field on the last day of the tourney they were bigger fools than they had looked. In a joust, with a heavy lance Alaric had no illusions of either his chances, or Rickard's against anyone with a midling talent not on a tourney list anyway. The melee was much closer to real battle, even the joust was still simulated combat.

It was probably for the best though neither of the Reach fellows had pointed out that as far as cadet branches went at a _mere _thousand years old Karlon Stark's line was rather young by the standards of high nobility at least amongst the first men. Oberyn at least had the decency to wait until there was space before he pointed it out himself.

-scene break-

It had not been difficult at all to find a room suitable for private meetings. Harrenhall alone was massive. The great towers, even if some were in need of repair, alone provided a plethora of apartments and storage space for the visiting high nobility. To that end it hadn't been hard to find a space to set his office and manage things.

He had spent the last several days contending with the mess his son had left in the dervish wake of his escapades. Rickard Stark knew he had a temper, but there were limits to the Lord of Winterfell's patience when it came to his first born's recklessness. Oh it certainly made him popular with those boy lords of his generation. He was stout in body and and was a prodigious talent with a sword, he was even decent enough in talent with a lance. He'd likely unseat more than a few lordlings, Rickard reckoned, assuming he didn't get tossed for brawling before this whole affair even got properly underway. The terms of their good conduct strongly discouraged the challenging of anyone to duels, much less unsanctioned ones. That good conduct, well he was sure his other two sons wouldn't have a problem with that, both of his younger boys were sufficiently skilled as befitted their status, but Brandon knew he was _that good_. A young man in that condition was dangerous, and it was why he had been leery of pushing Brandon towards the joust... but if there was anything that would get him to show restraint it was pushing towards something making it seem more like a chore than an adventurer.

He had considered pushing Eddard into joining the lists, being fostered by Jon Arryn his second son probably could have been knighted by now. Actually that was part of his annoyance at well, Jon Arryn had actually offered to knight his spare, and that would have been useful. Especially since he really needed to consider prospects for Eddard's future. A knighthood would be a useful character reference towards any particular southern matches for him. It would also be useful to buy time while he determined where best to settle Eddard, and perhaps Benjen as well. Rickard Stark wasn't quite sure where the time had gone with regards to his third son... no that wasn't true. He knew where it had gone, between his hopes of enriching the North, and the transition of successions amongst his eastern lords there had been so much to do.

Such thoughts were cast away as his captain of the guards opened the door to herald the arrival of Lord Quellon Greyjoy, and that they would now be able to get down to the business at hand. Lord Quellon was a tall man, well muscled even in the face of his advancing age, and with heavy weathered hands. Even in his advancing age he was as tall as the young lord of the Stormalnds. He had lead longships against slaver, and against the Blackfyres during the revolt. He supported Aegon V's laws protecting the smallfolk and a host of other reformations both in his own lands as well as those in the wider kingdom. He was all in all a natural ally to their cause.

That was not to say such should be taken for granted. Rickard Stark knew that there existed grudges between Lord Lannister, and Lord Greyjoy beyond just the opinions over the rights of smallfolk... not the least of which was likely some timely raiding that occurred in private wars during Lord Tywin's father Tytos's rule over the Westerlands. That would be something that he and Lord Arryn would have to watch for, and manage if it became a problem.

-scene break-

He wasn't quite sure if the Hall of a hundred hearths was an actually accurate as far as names went but it was very large and if there weren't a hundred lit hearths there were many. Harrenhall was ungodly large. It had allegedly beggared the Ironborn who ruled what would become the Riverlands and no castle in the known world matched it in size. It was truly massive. There had been some kind of... disagreement between the Hand, and the King. Alaric had never bothered with trying to see the Targaryen monarch up close... he had never seen the point to it... but it was not the man's appearance that bothered him. It was the madness.

As a general rule alignment was more a guideline than a definitive objective characteristic. There were evil races, but it was possible for even a chromatic to do good. Rare as that true altruistic behavior might be from a Red. No. Chaotic was the best way to describe the king. He hadn't actually had to cast the spell. His symbol tucked underneath his vestments had burned in warning... and he knew all too well to take of such warnings.

It illuminated a single concise course. Go home. Obviously leaving immediately was out of the question, but he had decided that he wouldn't be putting into any port in the crownlands without any other possible choice for the forseeable future if he could help it.

The induction of Jaime Lannister though... to the King's Guard... that had to be the cause of the disagreement. Unless of course Jaime's Lannister's reported volunteering... and certainly by all appearances Jaime had had not reservations to his induction... for the King's guard had been coerced. Ultimately he supposed it didn't matter. He had no ties with the Westerlands, and he was hence forth going to be avoiding the crownlands. Yes, avoiding the Crownlands... and that matter their favorites as well seemed wise.

There was a sharp elbow into his side, "Oh look he's going to play his harp." Rickard Karstark's voice was ... well calling it derisive was an understatement. However the ballad that the Prince of Dragonstone presented to the hall awed the expansive hall. Alaric would at least concede that the Crown Prince was quite skilled with song, and he gave an even handed approving clap at the end of the recital. "You think he'll enter the tourney of singers?"

"He certainly should with that voice," Alaric replied sipping the wine provided to their table... only after waving his hand to check for poison. Lord Whent he trusted... but there were too many servants... even if the King's... feel... had not scared him out of his skin he would have done so because of the whole Lorathi issue. He'd be taking precaution against everything he ate while he was here... and then he would be sailing straight back to Overton, and then directly on for the Dreadfort. Then he'd focus on dealing with the Lorathi problem. Once they were cleared of his seas then he could worry about trade, and things would hopefully return to normal.

"Ah the dancing," Oberyn declared no doubt already having picked a dozen women he might have already decided to make play for.

It was apparent that Lord Whent hadn't expected the King of his Party. The Crown Prince, yes that much seemed expected... but not so many of the Kingsguard in tow. Or for that matter the King's other retainers. For that matter Lord Whent may have made a miscalculation in the size of his attendance, not so much for the tourney itself, but rather in the less martial social side of things.

Simply put it was invited all the realms highborn men folk, yet there was a distinct lack of feminine equivalent. In all honesty there could have been any number of contributing factors for that, including that while Lord Whent might have been expecting a 'large' turnout he hadn't been expecting this large of a turnout. Or simply he had hardly expected the entire sum of the great houses to uproot themselves to visit, though that was less likely. Regardless there was also the issue of it as well, there was propriety to consider.

Had Alaric had a sister he likely have left her in charge of the household's finances and brought Roose, and his betrothed along. Of course that assumed said hypothetical sister shared his and Roose's talent with numbers. It was possible that that was the choice of others... or perhaps much as Roose had expressed little interest in traveling to a tourney others had followed suit. There was also the fact that, quite simply the realms tended towards being insular. Yes, genteel ladies had come from all seven kingdoms.  
"Reaver," Karstark muttered to him sharply. Alaric had seen the willowy woman with coal black hair, and he quite frankly ... and she was perhaps Oberyn's age... which wasn't saying much it was perhaps a difference of three years from his own. "Oh come dance with her, otherwise she might throw an axe at you."

-scene break-

There had only been one small scuffle in the forecourt as the night had worn on.

He was actually surprised more people hadn't been stabbed. All the drink, the sudden discomfort of the King's arrival... the fact that the king looked like death warmed over. Maybe Alaric was projecting as he belted his trousers. His feet were still sore, they ached actually. It wasn't as if he was some wonderful dancer, but even so. His feet hurt.

Oberyn made it look easy. Oberyn had the advantage of being tall, but not built like a mountain, which was Rickard's problem. Alaric's problem was his lack of exceptional height. Mediocre dancing could be excused by tall people... it just looked sad if you were average height, at least the poor cranogman could dance that made up for his lack of height.

Thankfully he wouldn't be expected to dance again except possibly at the end of the tournament, which would be nine days from this evening... so basically ten whole days of no dancing. Most of that time would be spent watching southerners try and hit each other with over sized blunted lances of soft wood while charging.

It was sure to be a spectacle. People had used lances, and massed cavarly charges in his previous life... but Toril had had much more common magic. The little cranogman had the talent that much had been clear, but he had demonstrated nothing more than cantrips, and only when pestered by Lyanna Stark. It had genuinely spooked Rickard though, if the word greenseer was thrown around one more time...

It was just magic. There were rules. On the other hand Howland Reed didn't seem to be bound by the Druidic prohibition against metal armor... which admittedly was something that had always struck Alaric as fucking stupid to begin with.

He waved a hand, and felt the wards he had erected around his pavilion dim. There was still power in them, but since he wasn't expecting an attack to come while he slept doubted he had cause for them to be in their current state. Alaric brushed his hair back, and stretched.

The archery contest was first up today, the first rounds of the Joust were to proceed after lunch. The rest of the tournament was expected to follow the same program culminating in the melee once all the southerners had finished jousting, and then everyone of note would just beat each other senseless on the muddy ground. That was just how melees tended to be. It was much easier to prepare for that way. Those first few lists would also allow time to insure all important personages arrived. In two days the more impressive jousters would likely start showing up in the lists, and it would go from there.

Looking across the waters of the God's eye being illuminated by the flecks of dawn, he was looking forward to it... especially since he'd be able to put his feet up all day, or at least most of it. Stretching against and insuring that he could reach his dagger, as well as his sword he slung his satchel, and tucked his purse within the interior pocket of his jacket. He had given the marshal at the fair's entrance his affirmative to keep the peace. Alaric Bolton had no intention of going against that, but in spite of looking fondly towards the festivities also recognized that many would be in the cups, and quickly. Pretending that there would not be disputes, and fights despite word given was foolhardy... and that presupposed a lack of malice to begin with that was even more so.

It was no surprise to him Oberyn Martell had not made it back to his tent, which he didn't even need to post a man to watch for. The Red Viper had planted his own pavillion tent... and those damnable peacocks he had brought... fifty paces leeward from Alaric's own tent. He saw littoral shipping making way toward's Harrenhall's port, no doubt having sailed up the river and into the small inland sea. It had probably been by the likes of such a boat that Jaime Lannister had travelled to the capitol as the new low man on the Kingsguard to safeguard the Queen, and the King's spare; Prince... it took a minute to recall... Viserys... that was it. "Anything?" He asked as he prepared to break his fast.

"Nothing of note," The watch captain replied. Falmouth was still quite asleep if the droning of his snores was any indication from the small tent windward was any indication. No doubt Rickard Karstark was also likely still asleep. He was pretty certain of that.

Alaric nodded, and took a bite of black bread, and spotted Oberyn Martell half dressed slinking down the path, clearly either still partially drunk or just groggy. The Lord of Dreadfort reached for the mug of spiced ale and sipped. "Have a boat prepared," He'd take morning prayer before the log heads dragged themselves from their slumbers, and likely be back for before Shar's darkness was entirely banished from the sky.

It was not a difficult boat ride to the isle in the center of the Gods Eye. It was a simple journey, and he doubted he was the first of the northmen who had chosen to visit since the arrival ahead of the Tourney's start. The magic which permeated the Isle of Faces was as he had remembered it being and it bore if one had to relate a sensation then the smell of junipers, and pines. All the clusters of weirwoods, and face trees he had ever visited were different. Winterfell, and the copse at the Dreadfort were different from one another, as was the younger grove at Karhold. He supposed the simplest answer was magic. Something had been wrought here thousands of years ago in a way that still remained as a tangible force to those with the gift. It was a much more potent force than the castle groves, and had an entirely more ancient feel to it. It reminded him less of the ancient cities, less of the ruins of Myth Drannor, and more of the remnants left behind by Old Netheril. It did not strike him as the magic of the elves, at least as he knew them.

Walking among the grove, he supposed also that it didn't really matter. This was a place of power yes, but there was little he could do for it. House Whent had strictly speaking perhaps the wealthiest lands in the kingdom both because of the size of the domain, but also the trade routes they straddled... lucrative trade routes, and fertile soil were a potent combination. Oh the Lannisters were wealthier, especially in coin overall, still but they had the whole of the westerlands paying tribute to them, Casterly rock's attendant lands were abundant with mineral wealth, and Lannisport bore trade from the sea, but that was not the same.

As he toured he considered the feel of the earth beneath his boots as the sunlight cracked through the branches. His feet did still hurt, but this was a welcome distraction.

Six hours later Karstark was happily gorging on a roast leg of lamb. "This is great," Alaric assumed he meant the joust, but it was his second helping of lamb. At this rate given things he expected Karstark to be sick from the heat. He hadn't been disappointed so far though. A handful of freshly minted Valemen had acquitted themselves well against one another and against the Westermen in attendance.

He wondered if the westerman in the lists had been put there given the absence of Lord Lannister and his sudden departure from the festivities. Not his problem. Another young westerman tumbled into the dust of the track from a solid hit. At least that hadn't been a mutual dismount. Most of these young knights were his age or younger. Tomorrow would have more experienced knights in order to cement interest. Tourneys did this because frankly most young entrants didn't have the coin to their purse to afford complete armor, and the gilding of more established participants. Most of these were the sons of landed knights, or second and third sons of higher nobility. None were the sons of greater lords so far as he could tell. Lord Whent however was allowing noble bastards the privlege of competing in the lists, which certainly wasn't likely to have been the case in the Reach.

There was some gambling to speak of, but not much. Not yet. Tomorrows lists it would pick up, but the real action with coin would start the day after.

-scene break-

Robert Baratheon was a big man, not the tallest man to be sure. There was some great lout from the Westerlands who had come and gone with Lord Stick up his ass, and some of the men from Ned's frigid homeland were quite tall themselves, but he was still tall by any standard among the seven kingdoms. He had spent the days since they had left the Eyrie in fine company, and Gulltown had introduced him to plenty of sturdy fellows against whom he looked forward to testing his strength against in the coming tourney. When Ned had declined to join the lists, Robert had agreed with him, voicing proudly that it would be the melee which showed who were real men anyway.

That had gotten him some dirty looks from the flower snots. It wasn't like it was too late to enter the lists, no one would dare to refuse a Lord Paramount their natural rights to honor the tourney. His royal cousin had made clear that he would be entering the lists... and Robert was willing to admit Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, was good with a lance, and not bad with a sword if he somehow managed to break enough lances to warrant going to the weapons at their belts. Of course his singing and playing with his harp had probably cast doubt to that by some of the other men... maybe that had been the point. That would have been too duplicitous for Robert to countenance, but Jon was always telling him not to discount the value of low war tactics involving deception if the situation called for it. Sometimes keeping everything together required wielding a knife, or deceiving a foeman into making a mistake and overextending himself. Personally, Robert felt smashing the bad guy right in their face was a lot simpler. It was certainly a lot less hassle.

Seven sides, he looked at the field trying to imagine what it would look like. A seven sided melee would mean hundreds of men on the field. He'd never seen the old style bout done on such a scale as Harrenhall be, and it was much more exciting than just jousting one on one.

The archery this morning... well if Jon hadn't roused him he probably wouldn't have gone. It was true that his Stormlands were quite well regarded in the use of the longbow... but for Robert it was hardly his forte. That wasn't to say he disdained like the reach's highborn did, dismissing it as the purview of the smallfolk woodsmen, but it was just not for him. He had no misgivings about the bow from the perspective of chivalry. There was nothing wrong with a bow, it was just boring to watch men shoot haybails early in the morning when he could have been laying in after last nights drinking and dancing.

Jon though had said it had been important to be seen. The problem with that was that... bluntly speaking Robert didn't want too... petulant as that might have sounded it just didn't strike him that he needed to be here.

He hadn't been there, at Storm's End, when his parents had drowned in shipbreaker bay... when the bay he reiterated that it had been well named by the ancients. The three years hence from it had largely left Stannis to task things in the Stormlands as he finished his fostering with Jon. He hadn't thought that was a problem, until Jon had taken him to task over it... and he hadn't understood why immediately.

Looking now though on the Royal booth, or rather Lord Whent's booth that had been ceded to the King when Aerys had abruptly arrived... he could begin to grasp it. Aerys II Targaryen, King of ... etc etc.. might have been friends with Steffon Baratheon, but Robert knew he wasn't his father. Those stormlanders, and those riverlanders in royal favor were challenges to their overlords. It hadn't been a lesson that he could understand when told obliquely, but now the likes of the Conningtons seemed outright treasonous. With his father dead now these few years, and Robert's lengthy absence, the Stormlords had had little to look towards beyond his dour little brother.

"Do you understand?" Jon Arryn questioned him in a sharp tone, though not overly loud. Robert nodded grumpily. "Good, land is wealth. That more than anything is even more important now that the King has lost Lord Tywin's counsel," Without the Lord of Casterly Rock to serve as hand there were likely to be a down turn in the kingdom's finances. Tywin, and Steffon had been able to run the small council in a very aggressive and, though no one said it aloud overbearing, manner allowing them to manage the wider kingdom. The efficiency had diminished after Steffon's death, and of course the Defiance at Duskendale, before Lord Baratheon's death, had deeply pitted confidence in the royal estates. For Lord Jon Arryn this was the point of the lesson, there was instability in the realm, and the Targaryens had not had dragons for a very long time now.

"Well, what then?"

Jon Arryn gestured to the assembly of the realm's elite, "It is quite simply my boys," He said making sure that he had Ned's attention as well, "It is imperative that the Lords assert that the king is first among equals. That this is policy of executive, and often arbitrary positions that King Aerys has committed to during his reign is unacceptable." Those were bold words, but it was their boldness upon which Robert most respected the like of.

"Alright," Robert nodded towards the booth, "But how is that going to work, a stiff breeze might do that bag of bones in."

Jon shook his head, "That isn't the point Robert. It doesn't matter if it is Aerys, or not. Too many coins have landed upon madness for the Kingdoms to endure." Had the Targaryen still had dragons such discussions would have mattered for nought. A Mad King with a dragon was still a king with a it had been two hundred years ago they would not have been able to have this conversation. The whole conflict between Blacks and Greens had been driven by each faction supporting different dragon riders.

Another piece fell into place in Robert's mind. One the helped better explain Jon Arryn's apprehensions regarding the condition of the lords of the Stormlands, and where their loyalties lay with regards to the king. Ned might have been entirely miserly, and Robert perhaps a spendthrift but the economics of it came to mind. Land was power, and in all honesty the Targaryen estates had been diminishing for years. The centralization of the Crownlands was useful in some respects but hardly ideal in others... and then there was what had happened at Duskendale. The Darry and Conningtons and all the other hangers on were lands that might be stripped away from their overlords if things kept up, and that would buoy the Crownlands incomes and revenues for a time... but how long well Robert couldn't guess, but it would hit his finances and those of House Tully and he could guess why that would be a problem. In fact, now that he thought on it more, Robert could see the added advantage of recent events. Not only the unpredictable souring of relations between Tywin Lannister and the King, but that Duskendale had been about taxes and the tariffs imposed by the crown... and since the latter the king had become increasingly erratic these last few years.

"But is not Lord Whent in the Royal Favor?"

Jon Arryn smiled at the question, "And that is best answered, by its complicated, Ned." He gestured around to them, "Minisa Whent was mother to your soon to be goodsister Catelyn, and thats important, but it is also important to remember that they were originally knights who received their Lordship over Harrenhall itself from Maekar. Ser Oswell is a member of the Kingsguard, but his brother Lord Whent must consider the future of his house as a whole. In particular the issue of what damages arbitrary taxes could do to his lands."

Lord Jon Arryn did not tell all, and Robert resisted the urge to needle his foster father for whatever secrets he was keeping back here in public... though he definitely promised to himself he would do so later on.

-scene break-


	6. Chapter 2 Part A

Notes: So with the last part, and thus the conclusion of 'Chapter 1' the tourney has started, which is why this part is the beginning of 'Chapter 2' now originally as with some of the events at Darry there was going to be more to the previous chapters, particularly politically speaking. I cut those in particular since I couldn't get the wider Archery competition to work, and I also cut bits from the Isle of Faces, and a section directly focusing on Lyanna and Benjen Stark. At the conclusion of chapter 1 Jon Arryn is lecturing Ned, and Robert about politics in a semi public place. From a realistic perspective the different high nobility would all have their own semi private booths, and possibly even have posted guards and private booths over the stands. In the case of the politiking in question, much of what Jon Arryn is describing is lifted whole sale from the baronial portions of the Magna Carta, as will be demonstrated in other scenes later.

-scene break-

He had participated in the axe throwing solely to stem the needling which he had been subjected to. Alaric knew he could have done better had he pushed himself, but it had been a useful excuse to blow off steam as well. Hurling a axe was cathartic to say the least, and had been to the enjoyment to all participating, and most observers. He could do without the soreness of his shoulder though.

Few, very few, Reach or Westermen participated... Oberyn and some of his Dornish companions had done so, and had acquitted themselves by honest effort... but it was an event of the Trident. The Vale, and Iron Born, the North and River folk had all participated with gusto. The smaller houses shined most today for it had been an event by which they could win distinction.

"I am not keen on the Eunuch." The King's shadow... his alleged new master of whispers was from Essos, which was curious timing and he misliked that intensely... but it was in general that the eunuch gave him the creeps. It was that coupled with the king's madness. That worried him most of all.

Through a mouthful of food Rickard nodded as they waited for the next of the list to make their way to their positions... that took a minute since both mounted men insisted on preening for the gathered crowds.

The others didn't understand since in general it was accepted by most men that Eunuchs were creepy. The discomfort of that was there certainly, but it was not the only part. The Kingsguard bothered him less. None of them struck him as anything but duty driven. Given who they were sworn to was his only concern. It wouldn't matter another seven days and he would be at sea, they could open the sails out in full and course to home.

He had already made that decision.

Then there were problems besides just the eunuch. He didn't mind the idea of mystery knights. It was sort of an established tradition. Strange hedge knights showing up to compete... hardly some outlandish thing. Though he was going to admit this laughing knight seemed a bit on the small side... even Rickard Karstark had taken notice of that. As far as horsemanship went it was obvious someone had had spent all of their life around horses. There was 'good', and then there was this level... he hated to say it but if not for the symbolism he would have guessed some younger Reacher lordling who'd otherwise been told to stay home.

"House Blackwood I'd guess," He muttered, "doesn't Faustus have at least one bastard who'd be the right age?" Alaric grunted as the idiot Frey went into the dirt with a distinctly satisfying thump. The Frey were as annoying as the Reacher boys, and nearly as common underfoot. If that was the case it would be interesting to see how House Bracken's entrants fared. Strictly speaking he figured Faustus Blackwood, who was only a few years older than Oberyn actually, had a number of children born to the wrong side of the sheets... streams as it were... but he held to the old gods which was a distinct plus at least ordinarily.

Karstark nodded, "At least," He agreed, "Don't know about this one though, Blackwoods tend to be taller ya know."

Alaric admitted silently that he had a point. Faustus Blackwood, and all known children, as well as a plurality of his kinsmen were known to be tall and gaunt, built like weirwoods as opposed to oaks as were likened to Karstark's physical build. "If not Blackwood then who?"

"What if he's faking, I mean the device," Set upon the jouster's shield, "definitely looks Old God, but who's to say he even keeps the old ways." Karstark replied leaning down on the rail, in what was probably not particularly safe. He watched the victory lap with interest, "Could also be from the Vale. I mean if it was one of us you'd think we know."

The young Lord of the Dreadfort was unsure if that was really accurate watching 'knight' lap the circuit. "Certainly not the eastern shore." He hedged rather than outright reject the notion. It was possible of course it was someone from the Vale. Someone who could trace heritage to the north, or at least to practicing Old Gods folk, by some measure. The North and Vale interbred frequently enough. The south, central, and western reaches of the North were all readily placed to tie themselves to the Vale as a whole. There were historic ties to the riverlands as well.

Even so, "Faking may be a bit much, he could certainly be alluding to a relative." Perhaps a kinsman was simply ill, and unable to compete, and this Knight of the Laughing Tree participated for their sake. It was as reasonable of an answer as he could speculate for given the rather lack of information at hand. Whatever the explanation was, it made no sense to be so aggravated at a mystery knight participating in the largest tourney held in recent memory.

-scene break-

For Prince Oberyn Martell it was a good day. He hadn't told even half as much coin as he had wagered, after all he hoped to manage an even greater catch to morrow. He was a prince of Dorne, and if there was one thing Obery Martell knew it was how to read the way a man sat a horse. This knight of the Laughing Tree was an impressive rider, and that meant much in the joust. They were probably quite young. He knew that from their size, and to be honest the misfiting armor was another clue, but they were not entirely comfortable with the lance. That had been his biggest concern, but the riding? They were very comfortable in the saddle and that had been what had convinced him to wager gold on it. It was his gold, and now that he was sure of the measure he was comfortable endorsing further wagers on the knight in question.

It was somewhat of a pain that the king had arrived without more planning. It was quite obvious that when Lord Whent's steward had made plans for the seating at the tourney he had done so expecting many high lords, including Lord Whent's own overlord, but not the King. Had his good brother Rhaegar not been here with his sister, Oberyn likely would have had a private box of his own. That would have been dreadfully empty and boring though. Instead since his sister and her husband the prince of Dragonstone were in attendance he was able to sit with them in a private box. Lord Whent probably would have might shared a box with Lord Tully in the original plan to offer the most command view of the field with his overlord while still retaining the dignity as host to the tourney. That wasn't really an option with the King present.

Aerys wasn't even letting Rhaegar sit with him... which really wasn't anything that surprised Oberyn... he would mention it to his brother Doran, but really only as an aside. The other High Lords, and then those beneath them were all spread out. Lord Whent had invited his gentry and of course the smallfolk of higher standing to attend and that filled out hte public benches. In short the Great Lords, those who ruled historic Kingdoms, plus of course Lord Tully, had private boxes to their houses' privilege. Those High lords immediately below them then vied for the remaining smaller but still private boxes. Those lords below them, and the more prominent Landed Knights got the rest of the boxes and began to fill out the best places on the benches.

This of course allowed the most established houses to proudly display their arms. His own arms, and those of the Prince of Dragonstone were thus draped from their box. Speaking of, Oberyn held out a hand with a wan smile, "I told you."

Rhaegar all but pouted at being pressed to make good on the wager.

Oberyn had been tempted to wager something like a single copper for the sake of just needling his sister's husband, but this was good to. Rhaegar still paid out the balance of the bet, which deeply amused the Red Viper of Dorne. It was so very satisfying. It wasn't even that Rhaegar had expected much from the opposition he just hadn't expected anything from some mystery knight. It was another reason he had made the wager with only his own coin against his good brother. Jousting was about the man and the rider, but you still needed to be able to hit with the lance, and that he could admit could be tricky. After this though, well Rhaegar would be reluctant to bet against the mystery knight now so Oberyn wouldn't be able to take any more coin from his purse that way, which was, he admitted a pity.

If part of that was because he would have thought that Elia and Rhaegar should have been in the capital with his recently born nephew and his infant niece... well that might have been part of his misgivings. Doran had sent him here though... to show the realm. Oberyn was a prince of Dorne and young enough to still participate in the festivities. A good showing in the joust, and a performance at the melee coupled with those of other Dornish high born would serve to remind the other kingdoms of their prestige. With the presence of Elia here it was even more important to show the realm the strength of Dorne to cement newborn Aegon's future as Rhaegar's heir. It would be doubly important for this was the grandest tournament in memory. To have so many high lords here, even if Quellon Greyjoy were not so important to Dorne, was impressive of Lord Whent. He knew well enough from Doran's nattering about it that the North, and the Ironborn had taken the lack of respect they received from King's Landing rather personally. Of course the Iron Born where much more queer than the Northmen so there actions left Doran concerned of antagonism, especially since Dorne had burned its fleet after the crossing. The tradition of house Martel made the prospect of Iron Born aggression troublesome.

-scene break-

Gossips.

Alaric Bolton sat in a shaded awning outside of his tent now that the day had worn on and the sun slowly dreaded towards the hour of dusk. He ruffled slightly as he steepled his fingers, the action causing his shoulder to tighten, in a way to remind him of the morning, and for that to pull his coat open drawing attention to the emblazoned device upon his shirt. The partial vergina solar emblem symbolizing the dawn admittedly looked as if it could have been an archery target; he'd been told that more than once. Of course, to be fair protection from arrows helped to account for that. He had forgone, cloak, or cape ensemble having expected for later afternoon affairs to draw themselves out like this. Even though the day was cooling it was still quite warm, and he had no interest of necessary layers. Unlike in the north there were no abundance of natural hot springs to bathe by.

Rickard Karstark had already paid for that, and the over indulgence of food and drink during the hottest part of the day, and he'd been quite sick, but that wasn't the problem. No, it was the infernal gossiping of southerners that vexed him currently. It was a mystery knight. It was ridiculous that so much trouble was made, for surely there should have been at least a handful of them at this tourney given its size. Aerys was Mad. It was the only explanation as to why the king would care that the knight, in all that was basically northern livery, for him to care about his advance to tomorrows set of the lists.

It was utterly ridiculous. He could understand the vexations the riverlanders, and the Reacher men felt. Particularly those who had lost, or their kinsmen, but even that was hardly cause for concern. It was the Eunuch... he was quite sure of it. The cockless rogue had been whispering from the shadows nearly constantly it seemed. Though of that perhaps, Alaric would admit he might have been being paranoid given his own tensions with Essosi villians. On the other hand, "This is absurd," He muttered tersely to the armsman. It was not his only problem, though.

Had he not sent men ahead to stake his camp site he imagined even Lord Whent might have taken exception from it. He had actually expected something to be said to him, and that he might have needed to assuage the fair marshals of their presence. He had not. It was possible Walter Whent trusted his word after all Alaric had never given reason to question it. Of course by that same measure it wasn't as if he had spent much time in the man's company. He glanced curiously at the melted walls of Harrenhall. Dragon fire they said. It looked much, much worse than Castle Darry... he could not fathom though that they had been done by true dragons of true power.

A Blackguard, a malevolent mirror of paladins, he had known had ridden a Blue Dragon as a matter of course, but they had been more allies than horse and rider. For that matter they had been well more than allies he suspected.

He had been carried, in an ambulatory fashion, by silver dragon back from the battle lines once in his past life that he could recall. A repeat of which he hoped never had repeated given the wound involved far far too much of his own blood, and the bones of his hip sticking out of the flesh... though admittedly given the situation he should likely have expected that from the small mountain that had been the earth elemental falling upon him. He had yet to see an earth elemental of any size in this life, and he had not dared trying to commune with any of the elemental planes.

"Sir,"

He could have been home. Trying to wrack his mind for Sodan's treatises, or Karathur, or Thay, about trying to draft adjustments and revisions to the sale plan for Seawolf, and her consorts to be.

"My lord." A different voice cut in forcefully through his thoughts.

He looked, "Ah, What?"

Falmouth gave a shuddering sigh, and flicked his eyes discretely down the way. The kingsmen... crownslander men... had been poking around most the afternoon. Swaggering would have been a more accurate description of their strutting. "Yes, yes I see them." He had actually made a point of ignoring the idiots. He had offered the marshal on Lord Whent's behalf his promise of good conduct for the duration.

"There is also the melee to consider, my lord."

His grimace deepened. Had Rickard, Karstark, not stuffed himself to bursting and taken ill they would have been able to discuss that as well... though no doubt they would have been side tracked by conversation on the topic of the Laughing Tree. The Southron nobility and their presumptions... tch. "I know." It was going to be complicated. A seven sided melee was an old style event. It turned an already complicated affair into an even larger one. There were so many participating as it was four teams would have been a mess.

He could think of no instance off hand of seven armies clashing under separate banners except where they had been allied together with one side or the other, though he could admittedly think of several melee a trois in history. Here, or there. Seven sides in this, nominally speaking it was probably for seven kingdoms. It was very unlikely that the smaller constituent teams would elect to form such a clean delineation as to such. He supposed it was for the best that the Crown Prince was unlikely to participate in the melee. No let him stick to his jousting it was going to be a mess enough as it was. Thankfully there were still plenty of Westermen to contend with. Seven sides was just too damned complicated.

Alaric stood abruptly and paced behind the chair, as it was he had yet to be approached by Brandon Stark, which might well have been intended as a slight... or the heir to Winterfell might have legitimately forgotten in all of the excitement. It was best not to assign malice without cause, Brandon tended to be quick tempered yes, but he was hardly a great planner even cool headed. It was most likely the latter... still it rather rankled given Lord' Stark's southron ambitions. "What else?" He demanded finally.

"Lord Manderly is in the lists tomorrow, my lord." Falmouth reminded.

The pacing continued. The sons he could understand, but really the Lord of White Harbor... no he couldn't really make that argument there were older men participating in the joust as it was. "And I suppose he thinks to remind that it is not too late of entering the lists myself?"

"Right on the nose," Falmouth agreed, "More seriously he had also mentioned the melee in passing I believe they were oblique questions as to teams." Wyllis, and Wendel were both jousting yes, but there was no doubt that they both would draft into the melee at the conclusion of the Tourney... though it remained up in the air in their father would join them. He had his doubts that Wyman Manderly would join his sons for the melee, though he would not necessarily have been surprised by it either.

That was more about sport however than political intrigue. Though he doubted if it was entirely bereft of the latter. He muttered an aggravated string of expletives in the Netheril tongue, which Falmouth waited out patiently "so which one should I expect?"

"Probably both brothers." Falmouth remarked.

Alaric turned back to the travel desk, and flipped his ledger out of the way. It took another moment of ruffling to find his list. It wasn't Wyllis, or Wendel per se. It was fitting them into the line where they would be be most useful. Rickard was easy to fit in. He had spent years in the yards at Winterfell training alongside the Lord of Karhold. He had fought with live steel alongside Oberyn, when the latter had been with the second sons. That experience killing Dothraki, and other wild rampaging swords in the disputed lands was a valuable experience. It was just a tourney. In fact he was sure it wasn't even their first tourney south of the neck. He just wasn't sure how they would handle in this situation. In a simpler melee it would have been less of an issue. "When are they up for lists?"

"I think one of them might be in tomorrow's lists." Day Three was going to be interesting, "I'd remind you that there is the matter of Prince Oberyn's essosi friends." The mummer show was something that Alaric had every intention of skipping. That, wasn't entirely accurate in relation to his schedule, since that would have been somewhat rude to Lord Walter, but he did need a more private meeting regarding trade in the narrow sea with some fellows from the second sons, and it was as good of time as any.

Alaric nodded, and drummed his fingers on the dark wood as he considered his words. Pale eyes set in a narrowed expression as he had the crownslander knight. If only they would go away, "Have they specified why they need them?"

"They're a mercenary company, my lord. Sell swords do occasionally find cause to get tied up with garrison contracts. Or to take a city."

The second sons did have the advantage of the old Valyrian roads, and a well known penchant for horses. They would have the ability to supply a baggage company to transport scorpions. Still the timing suggested something bigger going on in Essos. Mercenary companies, even the Second Sons rarely procured siege weapons well in advance of needing them. Myr, or Tyrosh were likely either as conspirators or as potential targets. It didn't matter to him. It had little bearing on his interests since even though Westeros tended to typecast Valyria's children by their vices it was rare for the free cities to ever cause such a fracas that it upended trade with Westeros in any complete fashion. To let the free cities butcher one another wasn't his problem. It was beyond his resources to hold land beyond the eastern shore of his home. As useless as the Night's Watch was the North needed those men home to deal with the wildlings and to address other problems. At least though the Dreadfort's lands were not on the opposite shore. He couldn't fathom the nuisance sharing a sea with Quellon Greyjoy's less amiable kinsmen.

He watched as Rickard Karstark lumbered from his tent and vomited profusely on the ground. He sighed shook his head, and reached for the cider he had been nursing while he had attended to the administrative tasks at hand. It wasn't even as if Karstark was the only one effected by the heat... it wasn't simply Northmen either. Food and drink during the hottest portion of the day was just a bad decision all around.

Finally at last the swaggering fools approached him. Pale eyes fixed them with evident disdain... perhaps he would see them on the melee field. If he did though then surely some other high born participant they had already aggravated this afternoon would as well and given them the lumps they deserved for raising such an infernal ruckus.

He exhaled and put aside his quill, "Gentlemen you look thirsty this warm afternoon, might you care for some cider?" he gestured to the tall dark glass jug. It was the product of the lands of one of Lord Whent's southern vassals, and while it was a bit different than its northern equivalent, it was still not a brew most would refuse. Obnoxious they might have proven themselves, but to refuse a hospitable drink was, well a rather perilous insult to give to a noble.

-scene break-

Lord Stark was grateful that it had been a warm day. Not because he enjoyed the ungodly southern heat, but because it had tired out all the boys. It allowed him, and Jon Arryn opportunity to speak at length without concern. He was quite sure that Brandon was going to be retiring early for the night, and he doubted he had cause to worry about Benjen or Eddard causing trouble.

The recent break, mere days ago even, between the King and Tywin Lannister only proved further the necessity of their work. It would have been better he knew that Aerys II had died at Duskendale, though he admitted that could have weakened their cause instead of serving as an example for it. Without Dragons the Targayens lacked the force of arms to control the great houses of Westeros without their consent. There was more wealth in being apart of Westeros than breaking the seven kingdoms back apart into their constituent domains though. Indeed by remaining united it prevented expensive, and otherwise costly, pointless wars between. Oh there would be skirmishes, there had been throughout more than two centuries of Targaryen rule as it was, but that was better than the alternative.

"Robert is convinced," Jon Arryn remarked, "I do not think he quite grasps the entirety of the situation, but if we were to draft the charter he would likely agree to it without much protest," the academic side of such things as statutory measure were beyond Robert. "and Hoster is sufficiently irked by the actions of some of his bannermen as it is that he wants this." A restriction the Royal power, especially as it related to taxes was the most important thing for some, for others it was the greater delineation of who's authority went where. That would be the biggest point of quibbling that they would face from the lords.

At least, Lord Stark mused, they could thank Maegor and Jaehaerys for doing them the great favor of crushing the faith militant some two hundred and thirty years previous. That greatly hobbled the High Septon's office, and thus strong discounted concerns of having to involve the Southern faith in representations. Of course the Great Sept of Baelor being in King's Landing likely would mean the High Septon would be little more than a puppet in such negotiations for the Targaryens, which was doubly a reason not to involve them.

Under Tywin's tenure as hand, he and Aerys had stripped many of the protections of the smallfolk crafted into law during the reign of his grandfather Aegon V Targaryen. Had such laws not been revoked it would have been likely useful to include them to some extent in charter, but most of the Lords preferred not having the crown dictate how the peasants were to be treated. They could limit the kings power without the support of those other high lords. If they were to bring both the Reach and the Westerlands into agreement even if basically after the fact they had to compromise on such concerns even if Aegon V had meant well for the realm by such laws. It would go a long way to help prevent peasant revolts though... and that would have spared the realm much grief. To that extent were he able to secure those things, Rickard would have done so.

Right now though they had four of the great houses. They might be able to swing Quellon who was distinctly reformist in character... but it would help most of all for their cause to secure the Reach.

-scene break-

Dinner was a quite mild affair; at least as far as comparison to the opening feast. The herring platters, and the stuff fowl had been filling though. The hard boiled eggs with saffron and cloves had been good finger food as they sipped ale and conversed. It was quite apparent though from the gossiping crowds that the search for the Knight of the Laughing Tree had come for naught.

Tomorrow though would be a new day. He took a linen towel, and wash basin to his hands in between courses and cleaned his Manderly was at his left hand. He was a big man, and quite loud. Wyman's younger son had made effort in the archery contest, though his performance while not poor had also not met with any renown. He had given an honest effort though, and had clearly practiced since the last he had seen him draw a bow.

Rickard had invited him to the next hunt for elk. He rustled a corresponding band of knuckle bones which competed for number in the one Alaric himself carried. Donnel Bolton had been buried with his own record of hunting trophies in the crypt beneath the Dreadfort with the Red Kings of Old, and the preceding lords of the Dreadfort. He expected if Wendel Manderly made good on the invitation for Roose to grump over it.

Beyond that though the hall of a hundred hearths though was rather sedate given the mass of people... the people were tired from the day's festivities and to an extent the heat of the afternoon sun. It had turned muggy by later afternoon, and might rain soon. Hopefully it would be mild showers if it washed out the track Oberyn's precious horse races might not occur... and that would result in trouble of one or another. It was unlikely even if it did rain to effect the joust. The lists tomorrow would account them half way through the days allocated for the Joust. It was likely the professional participants might be tomorrow. The herd had been thinned enough as it were, and any one who were coming had arrived.

He wished that Oberyn's companions were ready to discuss business this night, but they were not... and quite frankly it was probably for the best anyway. He didn't understand the lack of wrights available... no that wasn't true. He did understand to an extent... at least so far as the doctrine of warfare as it was prosecuted in Westeros was concerned. Among the Seven Kingdoms, and their... very queer ability to throw together such tremendous armies of purely mundane humans by en masse levee in order to batter down their enemy... certain things fell by the wayside. The Targaryen loss of their original source of power, and the unification also reduced the need for battlefield siege weapons outside of carefully chosen ground. In Faerun the idea of trying to put that many men in the field without support... well it would not have worked as well as simply flailing against a similar host. Case in point Aegon's creation of the field of fire.

Armies needed professional soldiers. Armies, also, needed mages everything from the lowly spell monger to of course high mages, and where possible archmages. The simple reality though was he didn't have that, because no temples, or schools to train those. He could still train, and drill a core of professional soldiers drawn from largely from his gentry, but it just wasn't the same. For that matter Westeros was significantly more stable politically than he could ever have imagined Faerun ever being, and he had serious doubts it could be maintained.

"I was the one who took ill," Rickard grunted bracing his elbows on the table and sloshing the ale in his tankard, "Why is it you look more morose than usual?"

Alaric's frown deepened, "I think, I will retire early tonight. Good evening."

"What the fuck is eating him?" Rickard Karstark demanded to the Manderly scion in agitation, though it wasn't as if he blamed Manderly for the sudden turn. "Gods," He stopped and cast an eye at the movement in the busy hall. There was movement all around, strange people in a strange land, before standing up, "Oi come on. I don't like this."

Chapter End.

Notes: Initial Draft 5-15, and will likely receive some minor tweaks, and corrections sometime in the next few days.


	7. Chapter 2 Part B

Notes: I had originally intended to have several more parts in this to cover the days of the tourney jousts, but at this stage I couldn't get them to work, particularly the repetiveness of a tourney joust interspaced with the politicking and horse trading of high nobles watching.

4 July 2019 Pending final revisions, and corrections.

-scene break-

In his first life, looking back at it he would say starting in his late twenties, and for decades after, Alaric had spent time engaged in Tethyr's relatively frequent civil wars. The small country on the western coast, the sword coast, of Faerun had been a cosmopolitan nation of nearly four million inhabitants. Part of that, the mercenary endeavor, had been hired by factions within neighboring Amn, and then by other pay masters as conflicts diversified, and tensions had worsened. He had done so largely in order to fund efforts in the likes of Calimshan.

He had thus intentionally taken the bully boys into the view of the fair marshals during his roundabout course. Arcanists were stereotyped as to not typically brawl. It was often considered supremely undignified by the standards of classical arcanists. He had also been expecting this since Darry, and thus had had time to plot such a move. He had intentionally taken them for a jot around the fair grounds to make sure he had their numbers, and that Lord Whent's marshals... or he hoped... were paying enough attention to notice his shadows.

Naturally of course Karstark had proceeded to decide to 'intervene' and uproot those careful plans of those countermeasures. On the plus side the Lord of Karhold had not come alone, which distinctly shifted the numerical advantage to the opposite of what the Essosi had expected it to be. Of course they wouldn't have had that advantage if he'd been given more time...

Alaric's magic displacement, and enchanted vestments let the live steel pass harmlessly against him, but they were using real blades; most certainly not blunted tourney weapons. Karstark hadn't expected that, even if he didn't yelp when he saw it, and for that matter neither had the men Lord Whent had seen fit to apoint in order to keep the peace. The riverlanders had pointlessly shouted at them to comply.

He saw the Essosi man's positioning shift the blade moving into a low position, that if you were naive might have assumed was compliance before the rogue lunged. One of the wardens shouting trailed off into a shriek of pain after having been stabbed in the stomach for that trouble.

The problem with trying to subdue more than one man intent on bodily harm. He stepped fluidly back from a whirling knife.

"What do we do?"  
Because they had just come from dinner, and that Rickard had been sick that afternoon he had forgone the usual sword at his belt. He was hardly the only one. Most of the nobility had forgone such girdings during peacetime because they just got in the way. It was the same reason you didn't feast in armor. Also because in addition to being supremely uncomfortable is generally resulted in both indigestion and being thought of a brute. With the alarming frequency of which the great houses of Westeros feuded, and the size of their armies that was not the impression you wanted to make on your neighbors.

Lord Whent's fairmen had cudgels. After all they had likely been expecting drunken brawling with fists than steel. Certainly the latter was known to happen, but it wasn't normal.

He dodged another angry snarling shout from the knifeman from across the narrow sea. The man had had his fun spoiled and was clearly irate, and he could work with that if they could avoid bantering and distraction... this was not the yard at Winterfell. "Ideally I would like to know who sent them, but he does seem against seeing reason." Alaric growled his own knife flashing in the moonlight... his original plan had been a little more simple than this, but the fairman getting stabbed had complicated that. The blade slipped into a space underneath the man's over exposed armpit prompting a shout of pain from the Essossi man this time. It would seem... to be as they weren't, as he expected, wearing anything better than leather jerkin. It would have been far to suspicious for them try this with armor and swords... though they might have been able to manage short swords he was grateful they hadn't tried. If they had he really would have resorted to more magic than he was already comfortable with. He had intended to catch the men between his own armsmen and more of Lord Whent's folk. He disliked fighting with knives like this, it was far far to close to fighting fair for him.

He avoided another strike as the other knife man became erratic in his attacks... most likely from the pain of blow rather than blood loss. This one had whirled on him only after he had been crack across the face with a cudgel. His eyes widened at the approaching lantern lights of armed men. His retainers had fetched more of Whent's men. At least someone could follow a plan it seemed.

"And who were they?" Lord Walter Whent looked tired as they set down over mulled wine an hour later. Harrenhal had dungeon space aplenty. As the largest castle in the realm it would be easy to have the Essosi stashed somewhere securely.

That was the question wasn't it, "Penthoshi, I think." Alaric hedged swirling the goblet as he allowed the wine to breath, the motion drawing attention to his bruised knuckles. The men hadn't had the Lorathi look... and their costumes had been more narrow sea in his design... though they could easily have bought the fabrics in any of the crownlander ports as well. Given Whent's expression he didn't think now would be the time to ask if they had said anything. "I don't actually know for certain what this is about, though I speculate it likely involves trade across the narrow sea."

Lord Whent took a long sip from his wine, "I am aware of your barques, and their seemingly mythic alacrity." He nodded, "I can see why that would bother the Pentoshi, certainly enough for some craven magister to break the peace with such vulgarity. The biggest question is how might peace be maintained, given where there are such vermin, there are usually more lurking in the shadows."

He agreed... because quite frankly it did make sense. Unfortunately Lord Whent, while taking this rather well was still not happy. He decided it wasn't wise to necessarily quibble over naval terminology with the Lord of Harrenhal. "Do we know when they entered the grounds?" Surely they hadn't been here since the start... one would have thought they have made a move before this. He was also pushing his luck by asking... Whent probably wasn't happy they'd stalked him to the Tourney.

"My Marshal is not certain as of yet." Lord Whent hedged, "It is possible they came by river barge up from King's Landing, or by the River road from the north." which wasn't really saying anything that was some great revelation. "I-"  
"I intend to depart as soon as the tournament ends-"

Goode Olde Lord Whent frowned, "I wasn't going to suggest that at all, Lord Bolton. I refuse to allow some Essosi catamite impinge upon my hospitality, or the honor of my house because your ships are costing him a few dragons here and there." It really was actually quite a lot more than that, but he definitely was not going to correct the Lord of Harrenhall, "I simply wished to ascertain what steps you would be taking to address this... what is your course for retaliation?"

He toyed idly with his goblet, and then sipped. "I'd quite like them dead, but I need to know who they are first." After he knew who... well once he returned he'd probably take ships and sink any of their ships afloat, but he was hardly going to admit that to Lord Whent. He got accused of piracy enough as it was... "There are friends of mine in Braavos who might be able to point me at those responsible," He leveraged carefully. It was true that he did have friends in Braavos who might know, or could find out... though he wasn't entirely confident it was something that could be done quickly, which was a problem.

What followed were more probing questions about the economics of such things. How much? How many bolts of silk, and other trade goods. Tonnages and so forth. The problem with such questions was Lord Whent asked, but there really wasn't a practical way to trade with Harrenhall without going through the Crownlands... or through Darry's lands if you bypassed the riverine routes south in favor of coming into the bay, and going overland the rest. Lord Whent was noncommittal as to which he would have preferred, though had suggested that he might have his people pick up the trade goods before they made into the Riverlands... which suggested the crownlands route.

This might not be a complete waste of time, though he wasn't quite sure who Whent intended to sell too... though he knew the Darry had to buy their foreign exotics from someone.

-scene break-

"What was that about?" Lord Karstark sounded sullen, and perhaps a little inebriated.

"Narrow Sea posturing I'm rather certain." He replied as they sipped mugs of beer. The outburst, distraction, fracas whatever one wished to call it hadn't negatively impacted matters. Now that they were a few days in there had been a few brawls of drunken sots tangling with one another, and that masked this sort of thing. He knew there were warlocks, weak ones, but all the same across the narrow sea... some of whom who may have meant him ill. This though seemed more mundane, perhaps it was. It was difficult to be sure. There was a clang deadening the conversation in the ruckus, and drawing attention to the field of the lists. The mystery knight had unseated a couple more of the Freys, there were so many of them, this morning, but that had been nothing to really chatter about. It had been a warm up, and nothing in comparison of the posturing to come now. Before they had broke for lunch, Ser Barristan had taken the field, and quickly unhorsed his first opponent. It had barely been a challenge... the poor westerman hadn't had a chance.

Now though was the time for great names of the kingdom to show themselves. Barristan the Bold was hardly the only white cloak to be participating. "Well there comes Lord Royce," Karstark muttered, "Where is his ponce of a challenger?" He asked raising his voice for the reachmen near them to hear, sparking dirty looks. He chuckled.

It was tit for tat pettiness but this was just the way the game was played.

Yohn Royce dusted the Reacher knight in the second pass. Prompting Lord Karstark to make sure make himself known again to the reachmen. "How much was that?"

He smirked, "Oh seventy dragons," Karstark grinned, because it was no small sum, especially for the match of the wager, "Too easy to goad the flowers into it."

Alaric nodded impressed. It did explain a lot about his friend's behavior. Taking the Reacher's coin probably was a relief valve for stress as well.

The lists continued, through the day.

Once the jousting was done though and the Melee concluded everything, well then he could blow off steam and then they'd be homeward bound. Once they were back north all of this would be behind them. There was something wrong with the king... and it cast a dark shadow over what had started as such an interesting, and inviting, event. It wasn't as if Lord Whent could complain about the king, but his appearance, and behavior was not a sign of stability for the realm. Rhaegar hadn't shown anything more than a talent for jousting and singing. Hardly the skills needed for a king to take up the throne.

It was not his problem. King's Landing, and the Crownlands were thankfully far from the shores of his home. His ships would not have cause to divert into the bay, or the ports on it.

Wyllis, Wendel and their Father all acquitted themselves well for the North. Lord Manderly lasted longer than Wyllis, but caught a bit of bad luck, and was unseated from his steed, even if it hadn't been a clean unseating. If not for his gut he might have been able to recover from it, but three tilts had winded him already. All in all it was a good showing. Some other northern born tried to make showings, but the only one to speak of were Brandon Stark who was left for tomorrow's lists. That was annoying... Brandon was a braggart and was probably out of his depth even if he was a good horseman. That would be the only thing that might keep him the lists assuming he could keep his ego in check.

-scene break-

Rickard Stark was unhappy. "I haven't had word with him abou it." He informed Jon Arryn before the Lord of the Vale could ask. He was actually glad that it was Jon Arryn, and not Hoster tully who had come to seek him outt on this. The Lord of White Harbor had attempted to downplay this having only brought it up after he had been unseated with his sons after today's lists. He had half a mind to demand an accounting in person... but that would have drawn more attention.

"I hear the knifeman they took alive was Pentoshi, and there may be others," Jon Arryn remarked sitting down and accepting a flagon, "In a port town... if this had come in gull town I would not have been surprised by it. The Free Cities are known for this sort of thing, but here?"

"Too bold, by far." The Lord of the North agreed.

Jon Arryn nodded, "Yes, he said something about engaging Braavosi friends to Lord Whent when I approached the matter delicately to our host,"

"You think he means the Iron Bank, or one of their merchant houses?"

Jon Arryn shrugged, "I don't suppose it really matters. Probably one of the merchant houses I'd say,"

True, enough Lord Stark supposed. His ascension to the Coronet had given lord Stark little reason to concern his eastern coast. If anything having all the great lords of the narrow sea on good terms with one another was a small relief. Wyman had made it clear that the trade voyages were in line with Rickards own aspirations of bringing greater trade to the North. He knew that Braavos was soured on the matter of Pentoshi intransigence, and would likely want more access to northern timber to fuel their fleets. To that extent he'd let the matter lie these last few years. Of course the Pentoshi wouldn't just lay down and die quietly... it would have been stupid to think otherwise, but even for a bunch of cheesemongers... really...

More to the point this was all very poorly timed for them. The king's arrival... for that matter having the Crown Prince here as well... had complicated things. The very public falling out between Lord Tywin Lannister... to the point of his resigning as Hand would have been enough of a shock, but really the King looked terrible. If Aerys II passed while at the tourney, well that would be problematic... oh if they had all the high lords in agreement in principle on a charter they could have stalled Rhaegar's coronation until he accepted the terms... but they didn't even have that much. It also would have been getting ahead of themselves. No, to that extent the politics, aspirations, or offenses taken, by merchants across the Narrow Sea was a most unwelcome sort of distraction.

It was also the sort of thing that would raise the hackles of the houses, great and small, on the Narrow sea even those who might not otherwise care about a northern house. Pentos may well have bit off more than it could chew. "Lord Whent though did bring up a salient point," Jon Arryn remarked tapping the rim of the flagon, "We are talking a dispute that must entail a great deal of coin to provoke this sort of response. This isn't House Velaryon we're talking about," Certain as it was the Old Bloods were historic traders, but their voyages were somewhat expected, staid even one might describe them as Besides the height of Velaryon power had long since come and gone.. A northern trading Cartel must have seriously rocked the boat even so, but still, "it is very likely the newness of it."

"Did they think he was just going to quit?"

"Just so," Very likely that had been precisely what the cheese mongers had expected. An idle dilettante's fancy, and that hadn't happened. Though to be fair... when all of this had started he hadn't made much of it. "Which brings us to the issue Rickard," The Stormlands were so close to the royal court, they circled it, and so many had enjoyed Aerys's favors, and privileges... and that would likely step up in the face of Tywin quiting the capital.

Lord Stark nodded, "Yes we need to bind the Stormlords closer to our motions." Strengthening the houses to the North as a broader motion, beyond just linking the two overlords was imperative. For that matter so to was tying the Vale, and the North further together. There were old rivalries that would need to be healed, but also friendships to be fostered between Vale and northern houses that would support long term securements of their positions. "There are other matters though,"

Though it had not been the instigating incident to all of this. Ser Oswell Whent's reports from the Crownslands... the Red Keep... had been a key facet in securing Lord Whent's support. The defiance at duskendale had been one thing, but even before that between King Aerys and Tywin Lannister the matter of taxes had been stifling. The arbritary nature, flightiness, of even those early years of Aerys's reign had been much to stomach... it had not helped given the rumors regarding the tragedy of Summerhall. House Dark Darklyn had gone overboard, everyone agreed to that in principle at the very least on some level.

Barristan Selmy's success was one thing, but that did not somehow change the greater points of th event. House Darklyn's destruction to that end could have been predicted, the manner of it though was still perverse. More than anything though was the example it set. They had to act, or they would all hang separately.

-scene break-

He'd give Rhaegar credit he could drive a Lance. The Kingsguard had also acquitted themselves well... though he questioned the utility of the king's bodyguards skill with Lances, but he was not a Southron King, what did he know. If they were throwing their matches against Rhaegar he couldn't have told it, but he truthfully doubted it. Rhaegar was talented on a horse, and knew what he was doing...

No. If he ever had to deal with lancers he would have relied on arrows, and pikes five or six deep, preferably with stakes driven into the ground to blunt their charges. It wasn't precisely ideal, but it seemed more sensible than trying to meet a charge with another force of horses as the Reach claimed was the height of gallantry. The idea of one on one horse duels with lances was hilarious. No this was play, and blustrous theater.

Karstark fixed him with a grin seeming to read his mood, and mind. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the melee. It would still be play fighting, but it would be more fighting than this. The announcement sounded, and the caller announced Rhaegar's opponent. Not that they didn't already all know.

Brandon Stark looked fine in his armor. The North waited. Alaric did not pretend was anything other than to admit Brandon Stark was good. He had proven that these last few days, and he might have been able to outrace Rhaegar on horseback... but Rhaegar likely outmatched him with lance. He didn't see much more than luck turning this for Brandon, and that was a faint glimmer... it would have been funny to watch, but he wasn't expecting it.

"Well here it goes," Karstark commented. Lances splintered, and were replaced, twice They were tourney lances, softer wood, blunted points after all. Still Brandon Stark was unhappy to say the least when he was unhorsed. Jumping up out of the dirt and clearly spoiling for a fight. "He'll get his fill of that tomorrow." Rickard added unnecessarily as Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone took a victory lap.

Alaric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort leaned back, and let the rest of the lists play out. This no longer held his interests. He wasn't so rude as to divert to wheeling and dealing during the final lists as some of the bored tourney goers had during earlier days, but he paid little heed even at the final tilt... and then it happened.

Rhaegar Targaryen deposited a crown of blue winter roses into the lap of Lady Lyanna Stark, and a silence fell. A hush over the assembled lords and ladies. Alaric didn't dip into profanity; though his ears caught the faint utterances. He didn't gape, though that was harder to restrain. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed. He was hardly the only one, Rhaegar had lapped the field after he had picked up the crown of roses to name his queen of love and beauty.

He could see across the way that the red viper of Dorne had blanched white. Color simultaneously draining, and then flushing with agitation and outrage.

Alaric couldn't blame Oberyn for that. It would have been one thing had Princess not been here... she was after all basically fresh from the birthing bed of the Prince of Dragonstone's second child. Prince Aegon being a boy should have also factored in on that in its own way. She was here though... even if she hadn't needed to be. All the bigger insult when she could have been at home resting.

Alaric swallowed again, and reached for mug to wet his throat. The chattering began, and built into a crescendo of noise. Still this farce at the end concluded the joust. Rhaegar Targaryen would not participate in the Tourney's concluding event. The melee field tomorrow would churn all of this to mud. They would see this over with, and this sour note would be forgotten, and then they could go home.

He sat the mug down and contented himself with the knowledge of the gold that would be added to his coffers for all of this. The hassle, and bother was a small triviality compared to things. Then of course had been the gambling, but the deal making though had been the bigger task. With access to northern timber, and projected incomes his bigger issue would not be the price of the ship but retaining, and training new crews rather than anything else... also rigging when you had to deal with a miles worth of sail and rigging there were costs... and replacement costs had to factor in. He supposed that factored into Roose's complaints.

-scene break-

Dinner was an excitable series of increasingly grand courses. Lord Whent's cooks, and valets had outdone themselves to prepare for everyone; and assauge any bruised egos. There was drink, and food aplenty. There would be dancing and song. For now though it was time to eat. "Oh tomorrow," Karstark stretched and laughed, "Seven sides." He laughed again, "Aye this," He grabbed a morsel of quail, and swallowed it, "will all be a fight." That was the point, those who did not participate in the melee would sprawl out around on blankets to picnic while men slogged through the mud to wail upon each other.

Seven sides would be hard to manage even with colored ribbons to identify who was on which team... teams would be a daunting preposition. There were plenty of westermen participating. This was like the north the event that the iron born had come to participate in as well. Though Lord Quellon Greyjoy was not himself going to participate. In its own way it was almost surprisingly, the Greyjoy tended to eschew continental standards of office sometimes seemingly for the sake of simply spurning 'greenlander foppishness'.

The reach men were like to be the biggest issue. They had annoyed enough of the flower sniffing moppets throughout the last several days, and taken plenty of their coin that someone was going to be wanting to even up. Lord Stark's Second Son... Eddard... was busy talking with his foster brother the Lord of the Stormlands. It was a bit surprising Robert Baratheon being of such a build hadn't taken the lists, especially with a fostering in the Vale. A little odd, certainly many knights from the vale had participated. It definitely looked like he intended to try the melee. So it seemed unlikely he was craven, and he was a loud younger man to be sure. Perhaps his loudness was just the cups talking.

Alaric helped himself to another hen, and grimaced as Rickard drove an elbow into his side. He was getting tired of having to guard his side all of the time, but glanced up and followed the other northman's eyes, and nodded in acknowledgement of the attention. Then he went back to his helping of the course. There would be dancing soon enough, but he was going to need a word with Oberyn... and not just about the Farce of this afternoon. No doubt the Red Viper was seeing red indeed... but tomorrow would be a new day, and they needed to discuss about that. Especially since of the White Cloaks it was known the Llewyn Martel, and probably Barristan Selmy, were to participate. They'd need clear heads for either man, never mind having to deal with both on the field on the morrow.

Arthur Dayne seemed to be intended to sit the competition out... he might have been injured by his tilt with the Prince of Dragonstone both men had nearly been forced to swords for the joust it had lasted long enough. Truthfully that had been perhaps the longest of the lists. Barristan was, to be sure, no slouch in the saddle, but Arthur Dayne was a younger man, and could be argued even more skilled. Still the tilt with the Crown Prince had been a bit much.

He couldn't fathom what the Prince of Dragonstone had been thinking. On the other hand crowning one of Elia's maids in waiting... like the lady Ashara Dayne who was also sister to Rhaegar's close friend and sworn sword... would have actually probably been worse all things considered. Either one would have been scandalous to be sure.

For Oberyn Martell it was very easy to find something to distract himself from annoyances. No. It was something he could accept that launching himself at Rhaegar was not going to do him any favors. He was also going to have to be the one to tell his brother about this. Two children. Ok, the northerners... Andals and all... and especially Targaryens didn't follow the succession rights of Dorne, but there was a son now. His nephew had a healthy set of lungs and all. Young Aegon should have been enough.

It was true that Oberyn Martell was a louse, and one might have yelled hypocrite at his outrage, but it did not change all of this, or any of it. Oberyn was unmarried, an oddity certainly, but his wandering eye might have gotten him in trouble... however Doran had never strayed from his marriage vows, in their younger days both brothers had been known rakes, but Mellario was enough for Doran. Elia should have been enough for the Prince of Dragonstone.

He supposed that it was best that Rhaegar would not have the balls to come to the melee field. It would have been too tempting indeed not humiliate him in response to this affront. Better still that he would be on the field, and Rhaegar would be tucked away in his private box. Once the melee was over Oberyn fully expected to be too exhausted to do anything. He'd probably be so tired his squire would have to help him off the field.

Truly that was one thing about the 'First Men', the Northerners and Ironborn, he didn't understand. A knight was not just some oil annointed whelp. Oh there were plenty of those, but on the battlefield a knight was a unit to himself. He supposed to be able to field besides himself a mount for his squire, and at least one other man. More even where feasible. In practice obviously this was expensive for most hedge knights, but three men on horse was a useful basic unit.

They would see that tomorrow at least. He suspected that the Iron Born and Westermen would be the immediate point of fighting. Chances were good Oberyn felt as he settled into his padded lounge with a glass of wine, and closed his eyes to focus on the play by play running through his mind... yes the Iron Born and Westermen would likely go for each other first. He wasn't sure though how the knights from the Crownlands, and those sworn to Dragonstone would interact, and that would be crucial. If he couldn't beat Rhaegar on the field, he could crush his bannermen. That might be enough of a balm.

* * *

Notes: If we ever get to the point of the Greyjoy Rebellion in this story, at this stage I more or less have planned for all of the canon Stark children to have been born. Its easier that way, that isn't definitive but its close enough to being so if we get to that point. Realistically, the Greyjoy Rebellion is one of those fairly likely events that would still occur, Quellon Greyjoy by all indications was too much of a reformer in his old age, and Balon was too much of a reactionary to not have some kind of revolt on the Iron Islands. It is very likely the Bran Stark, and for that matter his younger brother Rickon (born 295) will still be born. Of course that would be at least thirty or forty chapters into the future so saying one way or the other for sure is subject to change.


	8. Chapter 2 Part C

Notes: It should be pointed, again, out that there were portions cut from chapter 2. I had originally intended for the days of jousting, and attendant commentary, in the tourney to occupy more of the fic, but I have gotten into a rut and want to hurry up and move on to address the points of divergence and hopefully get on to the war. This chapter is still undergoing revisions, but I felt I needed to post it or I was going to get further behind.

-scene break-

It was a mild morning. Not really warm, and not especially dry, but it was probably a good sign for the melee at least. It had been a chore for the valets to rouse Rickard Karstark from sleep. Not that he had expected any less. The previous night had been a glorious display of splendor, and the wealth of their hosts. There was no escaping the gossip though that now consumed the court assembled. Having watched closely both King, and Prince, neither Targaryen seemed to understand the chatter going on. Its causes, or the discomfort of it all.

Alaric ran a hand over his armor. He had a forge in the heart of the dreadfort capable of producing alchemical steel, but not in the quantities he needed. Mithral continued to elude his search... and admittedly to be honest it wasn't as if he had tried so terribly hard to find it. He just didn't have the time, though he remembered fondly the better armors of his past life... and the weapons. He would have liked mage steel something to allow him a greater degree of fluidity, and thus less hamper his arcane spell casting. He didn't need that here. He had little intention of using magic, not even divine magic, it would have been deeply unfair. You didn't cheat like that. Not in a tourney... but if this had been war...

If this had been real steel, live edges. It would have been different. He would not knowingly go into such a thing without the magic already prepared and ready. If... if someone came at him, well he was a cleric, divine magic wasn't impeded by the bulk of plate girdings. It was unfortunate he could no longer cast implosion, but so what.

"My lord?"

"Lets begin," He stepped back, and let Falmouth get to work helping him into the dark red cuirass breast plate over his hauberk. Of the sets of plate armor he owned in this life, this was the most fancy... he had heard that Tywin's first born had a gilded golden suit of armor. All of it was gilded, not just the breast plate... a shiny gold suit. The Prince of Dragonstone hadn't even gone that far... though the rubies inlaid into his breast plate were a tad much in his opinion. This was closest though that he had to a parade armor... he had worn one similar when he had taken up the Coronet. It took another fifteen minutes to be fully armored, and he swept of his pavilion tent with the mantle flowing around him... which would have been more impressive a display if he'd been taller.

Karstark's parade armor was white... in the typical Stark coloring there... A wolf chasing the sun engraved on the breastplate, Alaric nodded in appreciation of the art. Oh certainly the jousting was pageantry, but the melee wasn't somehow immune from being a spectacle in its own right. All across the fair grounds men were stirring, or readied. Banners streamed. Horses whinnied. "How much of last night do you remember?"

"eh?"

Alaric shook his head, clapped him on the shoulder, "Watch for House Darry on the field," With any luck the plowman's keep didn't remember. It wasn't as if Karstark had some how been wrong, but even so. He accepted the help up into the saddle and straightened his back gripping the reigns. It didn't matter now, if anything came of it, it came of it... if nothing did, well how often did Rickard come south of the neck anyway.

Both men straightened a little more as the Direwolf of House Stark waved. "Lord Rickard," The old wolf smiled, and nodded.

"Good," He wasn't armored, which wasn't really a surprise either. "Come ride a ways with me, my son needs rousing from his bed. A boot in his ass," Rickard Stark meant Brandon then, everyone had drank a little too much. "You know my youngest Benjen. Watch over him on the field, yes?"

Rickard, Karstark, chortled, "Of course my lord." That was a little late to be asking, but it was hardly a thing to refuse either. It would have been better to have known, but this was an honor still to be entrusted.

Truth be told he had assumed Benjen Stark would have been sitting this melee out, there had been no word at least that the youngest Stark son would be competing... though he had participated in the archery tournament. Compared to the two of them Benjen Stark's armor was plain. Functional, but plain. As they saw later the same was mostly true of Eddard Stark's, though his bore more Vale influences. It mostly likely having been forged by an Eyrie smith. The more he looked at it the more he was sure it had likely been a gift from Lord Jon Arryn to Lord Rickard's Second Son. The same could not have been said for the armor of Brandon Stark's, which while not especially ostentatious it befitted the first born of a lord paramount. Likely a recent purchase, possibly even specifically for Lord Whent's tournament to show off House Stark's coffers... or simply a namesday gift. House Stark managed lands were hardly small and there were plenty of sheep farmers upon whom marks were imposed for each lot, or some three hundred sixty pounds, of wool. Alaric couldn't honestly say. It would have been impolite to bring up.

As the assembly grew in size it became harder to make out individuals, most hadn't yet put helmets on, but there was too much noise, and too many waving banners to catch sight of men. He resited the the urge to question whether this was Benjen Stark's first Melee. He doubted it was, and had he asked Brandon that sort of question he was just as like to take offense. Brandon, and Eddard Stark were both known to have their share of regional tourneys under their belts, it wouldn't be a surprise for the third son to have participated in at least one or two small northern ones. The bigger issue here was the size... and having seven sides to keep track of.

Alaric caught sight of Lord Dagmer Cleftjaw among the Ironborn contingent and reckoned he would likely if not be in charge of the Ironborn at least one of their ancients. The shaft in Dagmer's hand was enough to guess what the Ironborn intended to do about his foemen today. It would be best to keep Benjen Stark away from the Iron Born. He had little doubt Dagmer had pried men out of plate with a maul before. There were plenty of other men here he could guess that had something approaching the Ironborn's experience... though the question remained how well they would restrain themselves in this game of war.

"Well he's certainly a mean looking bastard," Rickard Karstark muttered having seen where his eyes had traveled, "Seen him afloat, have you?"

At Sea? Goodness, "No, and I don't care to the idea," He replied. As far as he was concerned he could do with not having to see any Iron Born sails on the seas. He knew they shared his seas, but he did not like the notion of having them any where near the eastern coast. Dagmer certainly cut a vastly more imposing form in his plate than he had at the feast table.

Even the high sides of his barques didn't assure that the Iron Born might decline attempting to board... especially in the littoral waters of the narrow sea. "Really?"

"The sea is vast," He replied, "I rarely see iron born." Alaric shrugged and glanced over some of the more familiar sigils of the Narrow sea houses. There were days he was glad he hadn't been born a century previous... dealing with House Velaryon closer to their prime would have been a nuisance... or maybe it would have kept Lys a little more honest. Karstark's face conveyed that he assumed if you left shore you would trip over them... as if they had not sailed to get here without seeing neither hide nor hair of the Iron born. "The squadrons of the Vale, and Braavos keep most people in gentlemanly behavior," ... suspicious ships from maybe Lorath aside this season... that still bothered him... Benjen Stark was still watching Dagmer... which wasn't all together smart. Oh yes he was probably one of the more dangerous people on the field but he wasn't going to be the only one that they'd need to worry about. Thankfully on examination, and then confirmation, Benjen did not seem overly eager to test himself against the Iron Born lord in the melee.

-scene break-

There was a trill to signal that they should ready themselves, and the Marshals began to depart the staging ground... some of them faster than others. He caught sight of some of the other Northern Lords... in the philosophy of battle among the North it was reflected that there was hot and cold, ice or snow versus some expression of fire. Sun, and Moon... the regional names for such concepts varied, but they represented the same broad ideas of application towards warmaking. The old tribal furies continued to exist, but the coming of the Andal had forced a more reflective way of battle and society on the First Men. In this one reflected, and chose one's battles... the path of this culminated in study and reflection led to an idea to master ones self. Brandon Stark, plate armor aside, would have been completely in line with the notion of the path of fire and fury. The great sword in his hand was likely designed to mimic Ice, the Stark's ancestral Valyrian weapon.

Benjen Stark's sword, and that of his brother Eddard bore more conventional longswords, though from their taper Eddard seemed to be favoring a design more common to the Vale of Arryn rather than the somewhat wider blade of his younger brother. Benjen's sword was like castle forged at Winterfell. He hadn't been so condescending as to demand to inspect the blade, but he was concerned how well Benjen would stand up to more experienced fighting men. No definitely best to keep Lord Stark's youngest son away from any of the Ironborn... Alaric checked the sword he carried to insure he'd be able to draw it and use it. Since they were required to use restraint... and not try and kill their opponent... they were using blunted weapons... or supposed to be he wondered if Dagmer Cleftjaw had been reminded of that. The iron born was hardly the only one he felt needed a reminder. He took a flanged mace up from one of his leal men, and shoved his mailed fist through the lanyard.

Across a line of men to his south Robert Baratheon was already rolling his arms broadly a large maul clutched in one meaty paw as he stretched. The Lord of the Stormlands laughing all the while as he shouted to different men.

Alaric patted the roan horse's neck beneath him. Oberyn Martel was actually standing on the saddle of his mount... despite being clad in a bright yellow set of armor... though the spear he had was thankfully blunted. That was a small relief.. and it was unlikely that the red Viper would actually poison a tourney weapon... or feasibly could... barring magic. That thought sent unpleasant memories of Drow flittering before his mind's eye. Lack of elves wasn't a completely bad thing, certainly the lack of non human slavers was actually rather nice. Of course he still occasionally deal with _human _slavers, but what could one do. Alaric contemplated the mass of men on horse. As this was sport they couldn't really be expected to keep up the mounted portion of this. The melee would take place informally in parts. The simple practical situation was that they wouldn't be able to fight this out entirely on horseback... that was just asking to get a bunch of men killed or at the very least seriously injured. Thus the first part would be the mounted gallantry of the charge. Hence the mace. The mounted men would attempt to force a path to move to the opposite side of the field. The nature of a seven sided conflict meant that there was a good chance of a side catching someone else in the flank during this part and eliminating a large force of their fighting strength; either their mounted men or their foot. "Once we're at the other end we will dismount," He told Benjen gesturing with his armored hand across the field. Grooms would take their horses of the field to be stabled, and their foot would guard their dismount even though Lord Whent's marshals would be there to unofficially discourage any opportunism.

Then the slog would begin. The horses and the first pass of armored men on foot would churn up the list grounds even more than had been by the last several days of jousting, and they would have to turn to present a front to multiple sides for mock battle.

"First charge is more about getting across the field then anything else, we want to be across," Alaric reiterated, "And we want to be across in good order." Getting across first was certainly preferable , taking a charge to the side was not desirable.

Karstark grumbled one hand toying with his helmet, "He's right, they aren't allowed to use lances, but there are enough of them that if anybody gets caught in the side they're fucked." Rickard remarked coarsely, "if we get to the otherside first, we can dismount and," We jerked his head and waved to men from the Karstark, Bolton, and Manderly households with billhooks, "We can wrench them out of their mounts." In a less convoluted melee, particularly a more modern one such tactics would speak well of them. "You yank a man off his horse, he'll be easy to take out of the fight. There more of their heavier horse we eliminate before they dismount the better off we'll be."

His, Benjen Stark's, bare chin bobbed seriously, which Alaric took as a good sign. At five and ten Benjen was just old enough to get it into his head he knew enough about pitched battle.

So Alaric swung his open hand and started naming off the potentates of the field as they were likely to develop. Rickard occasionally added something if he felt the Lord of the Dreadfort had missed a detail of note.

"Do not get separated from us, stay on left, Falmouth there will cover you as best as he is able."

Rickard Karstark nodded, "Yes if they and form ranks I'll take this one here," He hefted his great sword, "And break them up into more manageable bits."

They surveyed the field again... where other sub units of the seven sides in this great show were all preparing to do much the same. He ran a hand along his sides without looking down as he checked over his armor and the placement of his arms. "Benjen, expect to get hit." He told the younger lad which of course only prompted Karstark to break into a belly laugh.

"This is going to be great," He turned, "Aye look there is Wyllis," Indeed the sea green of House Manderly was bit difficult to miss even in this mass of colors.

-scene break-

Lord Stark made the top landing of the stairs to the booth to find his daughter already there. Good that debacle yesterday had been the height of indignity. At least that silver haired rogue had had the good sense not to strut onto the field of the melee like that. Brandon had been furious. The prince of Dragonstone should have had enough sense to know better... too much poetry in his head. That was what it was.

The Lord of Winterfell chose a goblet and took a long soothing pull, "There are some of the stormlanders there," He said waving from the box, "I don't see Robert yet, but he'll do well you'll see. This is closer to real battle than the pageantry of the jousts." He declared. Not that he'd concede Jousting wasn't useful, a wedge of lances had its place. Jousting was good practice for that.

"I'm not afraid," Lyanna retorted.

Good, he mused. Too many of the Riverlanders, and Reacher lords refused to even considering teaching their daughters anything more than sewing, which was was bloody waste. A woman needed to know numbers, and run a house hold. It didn't hurt to teach them to string a bow, and loose either. A sword was good, but a spear was better, since it gave them more reach to work with if it ever came to that. He given her her first dagger before she'd turned ten, "Good," he finally declared, "This is sport. The goal is to demonstrate the skills in control of those skills." He continued on, "Not to kill anyone, or cause serious harm. It will be chaotic down there." There would be blood, that was for sure. Seven sides to contend with would give glimpse of just how chaotic a war between the realm's ancient kingdoms would be, and he hoped that that was understood, but he had his doubts.

Young Robert Baratheon was the only lord of those old kingdoms upon the field. Young was the important part of that. Had he been a few years older it would have been hard to countenance someone of his standing taking the field. If his Royal Cousin had well it would have been less awkward, but Robert was unique on the field. Having Brandon, and his brothers as well, only helped slightly to mitigate such things. Unfortunately that age was why they had only discussed the charter with Robert obliquely thus far. He wasn't ready for that responsibility, and it was unlikely he completely understood the danger royal encroachment posed to his standing. House Baratheon were the descendants of a Targaryen bastard after all, they had Targaryen blood, but they had not been kings in their right before Aegon. At least the Stormlands though had been a Kingdom... the Riverlanders had been under the yoke of the Iron Born at the time.

-scene break-

Oberyn Martell had two problems to his situation immediately. The first of course was that many of his countrymen, those brave sons of Dorne readying to take the field were naturally quite upset with the Crown Prince. The second was related to the first. His uncle Lewyn Martell was also upon the field. He was upset as well, but he wore a white cloak, and that was a problem. He was a prince of Dorne, a Martell, but he was a kingsguard as well.

It had made for a very awkward reception. To be fair to his uncle, Oberyn knew quite well that it wasn't his fault. No, the Red Viper knew that the fault lay with one who was too cowardly to step on this field and take his lumps like a man. That was unfortunate so the down payment of lumps owed would have to be made on the crownlanders, and the Narrow Sea houses who were sworn to Dragonstone. He had done his best to rally, and focus the men, but once things really began would he know if it would work.

Has that miserable louse not ruined everything he would have been able to relax. He would have been able to have fun, but no Rhaegar had to go and humiliate his, Oberyn's, beloved sister in front of the whole realm. What was worse was he was going to have to get past those stormlander hooligans in order to attack his quarry. An attack of which he would have to conduct without the support of his friends from the north. A pity, that was, but he could stand it. They would be fine, of that Oberyn Martel Prince of Dorne was sure. He could already guess their strategy in this open portion. Most likely they would want to avoid an initial conflict, where the Reach would be most effectively organized.  
He could not blame them. In any other situation looking upon that mass of fine horse flesh he knew he would have done that same thing had he not had higher callings upon the field this day. "We are ready?"

"Of course my prince," his squire answered signalling the other men in their detachment. The banner raised in salute.

-scene break-

Jon Arryn grimaced as he watched the Banners of Dorne's houses raise. Dorne had the greatest chance of an Independence faction... oh yes there had been the laughing storm revolt by the stormlanders years and years ago, but Dorne was Dorne. This was Rhaegar's fault. Still it wasn't as if the Dornish could declare independence. Marrying Elia pretty much insured that, but still it was little ridiculous for Rhaegar to so flagrantly insult his wife, and her family in such a manner. To insult his cousin as well, and the North on top of that in front of the entire kingdom. It was ludicrous. That insult though was useful to them.

He wasn't going to tell Rickard that... not until he had a chance to cool off, and he would likely never tell Robert that, ever... but by having the crown prince act in such a casual and arbitrary manner it reaffirmed the necessity of it all.

Jon Arryn considered his box. The brief mental math he conducted suggested that he might just be able to head over, and join the Starks in their box. It was unlikely that they would chose to come and join him, Rickard was likely stewing at the moment in quiet fury. Of course he wasn't entirely sure how bad the crowds would be either, and sometimes the man with pipes blew early. He didn't wish to miss the initial charges. Eddard's brother, the heir to Winterfell, had performed quite well in the lists of the joust and he was actually looking forward to seeing how the boy handled the melee against Robert... especially since the Prince of Dragonstone had deigned not to participate in the melee.

Jon Arryn hunched forward looking into the crowd. It wasn't hard to find the various Vale boys, and taking a moment to track he found his way to Robert, and Ned right there beside him. That was what he was worried about probably the most... his eyes flittered back to the banners in Sunspear's colors... and he exhaled in annoyance. Ned he wasn't worried about. Robert... or the younger Martell brother... either or... possibly even some of their vassals. Most likely it would be Robert, or the Red Viper both of them had quick tempers, and reason to be stirred up about this. Prince Oberyn would probably ride up and say something inflammatory and that would prompt Robert to see red... no pun intended there. The kingdom needed this though. They had to show strength here, show that Robert was strong. That the Stormlands were strong, stronger than the crownlander men.

-scene break-

He felt it in his bones. The jarring rattling as they took off. The mad dash they made banners waving high after the marshals had signaled them to begin. The thrill of it all. Brandon Stark cocked his head and looked around, and grinned as he spotted them. He was agitated with Rhaegar, but that coward wasn't here... why take it out on his father's vassals, when he could pit his martial skills against the yellow bellied fop's own.

Of course, had he discussed such plans for the field some of his friends might have had the sense to point out the ... indelicate... truth of what such a maneuver wasn't very wise. Brandon Stark had spent no small amount of his spare time deriding the Reach, and certainly this was not a unique bit of provincialism. The Reach had of course been the butt of many jokes throughout the course of Harrenhall's tourney, a detail which would be unfortunately missed in most official histories. It was an ignominious thing, but Brandon's thrilling inspiration presented all too tempting a target for the young knights of the Reach to take advantage of. Had this been a more modern, conventional three or four sided melee that would have taken them out of the running. Instead the result was just a greater fracas.

Brandon sent a dirty look at his feet as they sank into the churned mud beneath his sabatons. He had been forced to dismount of course. There were reasons why the melee were organized in sections it was a safety precaution. A fall from a horse could be dangerous. Brandon Stark drew the great sword at his back and shouted for the men who had dismounted with him as they squared against the Narrow Sea houses.

-scene break-

The Netherse expletives slipped without meaning as he stared at the display unfolding before him on the field. He certainly hadn't expected that, no one apparently had. It wasn't as if he had been in a position to do anything.

"What do we do?" Benjen Stark was thankfully still beside him. He had not broken ranks, though he had expected it in the face of that bull rush.

That was a good question as it happened. Since he could already make out House Martell's cadre making very suspicious looking arrangements to their men. Oberyn's time with the second sons weighed heavily on his decision making process. There was of course little they could do. When they had made the initial charge there had been very little contacts. The Stormlanders had caught up in some of it, but with the number of scions of the blood on the field that had been unavoidable... now though. Besides as muddy as the field was stopping abruptly was a good way to have your horse break a leg, and stumble, and that was bad for riders. As in stuck under your own horse bad...

no he wasn't sure what Oberyn was up to now, but he didn't like it since Lewyn Martell was also on the field... and that complicated things. He turned his head to the charging Reachmen, their crests ... a basket of so many high born houses of note. There were only so many men that they had been able to enter in the melee lists, and... "Rickard,"

"Aye?"

He ran another quick mental count, and resisted another string of obscenities, "We're going after the Narrow sea men, I'm going," He saw the fish, "to need you to push open the Emmons," Dragonstone had few houses sworn to it, but this distraction could very well cost their side a victory in the melee over all. There were hundreds of highborn men in the field drawn from every corner of the seven kingdoms who had been raised since birth in the arts of war. Not all mean of high birth were born with the same talents though. The problem of using a sword in battle, it being the favored weapon of your god or not, lay in that when fighting multiple potential opponents was there was only so much that could be done if something went wrong. Brandon's great sword for example was designed for a specific sort of use. The Stark Ancestral blade 'Ice' with its blood hungry Valryian steel was supernaturally light sharp, and strong, but Brandon didn't have Ice. He had a much heavier and much less impressive mundane blade, not unlike the one Rickard Karstark carried.

Rickard rested his blade on his shoulder, "I'll break the ice open for you." He replied, and then was off his flank guarded by bannermen who would fight the others.

Alaric's eyes found Lord Bar Emmon's eldest son he'd looked sort of like Wendel in appearance. He checked the man's footing, and the way his head jerked back and forth to the side, and smiled. The Andal who was perhaps one and twenty straightened but kept warily glancing off to see why his men hadn't stopped Rickard's advance. Benjen Stark dogged Alaric's heels as he advanced on the stumbling narrow sea men. Steel flashed in Alaric's hand as he stepped out and clear from the Karstark formation that had been shielding them and drove forward. The flash of the long sword blade just under three and a half feet of steel hacked clean through the shaft of a man's pole axe. Bar Emmon's eyes widened further as the shield on the northern lord's arm rose in meteoric strike of an upper cut laying out his chosen prey. Rickard to his other side with several narrow sea men sprawled across the mud in front of him presented a second option.

Alaric was already dropping into a crouch to control his position, and sword rested low, though not where it might trapped against his shield. He knew where he needed to go. He needed to get through the Bar Emmon ranks, and then crush the sea horse before House Velaryon could rally. Rickard drove a low kick into another man's lower before backhanding the man the flat of his blade. They were breaking through, but were now in a press of bodies that diminished Rickard's ability to generate a full swing. Bar Emmon though was open. There was no chance of him getting away and the Lord of the Dreadfort lunged the blade sliding forward to push and trap the other man's sword and wrench it out of the way. Other people might have assumed that trick was Braavosi, not that it mattered. Rickard gave another half swing shoving smaller men aside, and keeping them from their charge. Billhooks slid from northern retainers to catch limbs and weapons as they advanced. "Benjen deal with lord Emmon."

The paunchy Andal turned a puce color as the words reached him, but the young dire wolf scion was already on top of the man with his sword. Alaric kept track of the sea horses, but the mass armored and fighting men made it difficult to discern where in the linie House Stark's first born son was with his companions. Worse he had no idea where the Reach or Dornish might be. They needed to get through this quickly, and present united front.

Twenty meters away Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was having the time of his life. Each blow he struck sent men out of his path. That was the glorious simplicity of his weapon of choice. Oh you could do fancy things with a sword, and then it chipped and broke on you... or got stuck. Not a hammer though, it might bounce off, but with him behind it, even that staggered his foemen. Ned had been telling him to ease up, but Robert wasn't having it they had these boys on the run. Though calling them boys might be a bit much they were all around him and Ned's age. He had sent ten men into the dirt while still on his dusky grey and black steed within minutes of the great call to begin from the marshals most of them swinging their gilded swords leaning forward or out in the saddle. Then he saw them the banners as they crashed, "Ah Ned look," He slung his hammer of his shoulder and waved to a fluttering dire wolf , and wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. That had to be that loud mouth... Brandon that was Ned's brother's name. Ned nodded and then pointed showing where his other brother must have been, along with one of their line's cadet branches. If they had planned this... it looked a little ragged to his eye. Robert personally fancied himself a rather decent strategist... not an amazing one, but he a keen mind for finding chinks in the line of men in previous melee bouts. This seven sided bit, well it did add a lot more chaos, and so many men to take a hammer too. "So what should we do Ned?" He asked in boisterous amusement. He didn't entirely mean it as a rhetorical question either as it was he could think of a couple of ways to go at this 'problem' and get a satisfactory answer.

"Brandon is too far out of position."

Ned sounded a little reproachful, "Ah, I saw that too." Robert agreed, not that he blamed him given the situation. The most obvious issue was, "And there is a whole knot converging on them." The northern force was in play forcing themselves into the Narrow sea parts of the crownlanders flank, but at the same time they were in a position where they were flanked by others. "What say we make Jon happy and teach some of these lackwits what fore, eh?" He asked eyes falling on some of the Crownlander formation. Riverlander Houses like Darry fighting alongside Lord Massey.

Now things had divested into the brawling portion of things. That was the problem with the old style. One alliance upon another allowed for multiple teams to conduct themselves in a single line, or even in multiple blocks with defined wings. Seven Sides was now showing how easy it was to spiral into a general fracas. Still Jon Arryn almost wished he had a spyglass to watch. He could already envision Rickard being prepared to throttle his heir for that boneheaded charge. On the other hand it was working. Robert was even now driving his own team into a mass of men down the line. Ned, and Robert complemented each other nicely, and it really would have been ideal to have young Eddard to accept Knighthood... he certainly had the training for it and that included ordering his retinue into the fray. That was his biggest worry for Robert that he didn't communicate well in small unit battle. To be fair, Jon Arryn recognized, that was probably his fault. Robert was used to fighting with Ned at his right hand. He didn't have a problem commanding larger groups of men, as he had shown at five and ten against the mountain bandits and barbarians of hill tribes, but he certainly preferred to lead up close, and personal in the way of battle as he was demonstrating here... and that was going to be a problem with the Darrys, because Robert would clobber them, and he would likely do so without holding back. Robert had a temper, and there was a good chance he might vent his frustrations on men only tangentially related to the problem. He kept an eye on the formation, by this point about eighty men had been dragged, carried, or had limped off the field under the watchful eye of the Fair Marshalls, and more were waiting. Some for assistance in getting off the field and others were just catching their breath... and some were waiting to watch the action more closely than from off field.

Jon Arryn though knew that this was getting quickly out of hand. Robert did need to assert his power over his vassals, yes, but humiliating them on the field wasn't the same thing. This was a game, one playing at war, but it was still bound tighter to rules. Though as his eyes fell back onto the ranks of Dornish men he wondered how 'important' those rules would matter or be thought as just guidelines. Robert's force had crashed into the Darry men now. It would have been wrong of him to actually have come up with a strategy for them to use, and it wouldn't have likely done much good in this case. This was all too chaotic. Too many sides, too many teams in each alliance to keep track of while you were on the field... for that matter it was hard to keep track from here. There was a veritable forest of banners clouding his view. Could Rickard's Heir link with Ned and Robert, would that work, he couldn't tell from here. A cheer rose from the other side of the stands, but whatever had prompted it Jon Arryn could not see.

-scene break-

Alaric found it relatively silly just how much emphasis jousting received, especially as it pertained to the Kingsguard. It was rather silly for a royal guard... then again he didn't hold the order any particular degree higher than say the maesters, or the Night's Watch, which was to say not very. Still credit was due in this case as the edge of the sword skipped off the breast plate of his arm sparks grinding from the edges. Jonathor Darry was from a cadet branch of House Darry, and his cousin Willem was master of Arms for the Red Keep. If that implied Jon here was less talented with a blade... well Alaric decided he'd just default to using magic if he ever crossed swords with Willem. Actually if this had not been a tournament bout well Alaric was certain he'd have already used magic. Darry, here, had come running to Velaryon's rescue, which was fine.

They weren't quite linked with Brandon's group of fighting men, but they were close enough that they would probably be all right from that perspective. They didn't have room to circle one another too many people fighting now. Too many grunting and snarling armsmen battering at one another, and then of course there were Darry's sworn brothers. Whent, and Prince Lewynn were somewhere on the field, and then there were the Westermen too to consider. Last he had seen they though had been facing Dagmer's iron born, and the Reach.

Still Ser Jon was in the way, and needed to be removed. Quickly. Well made plate is surprisingly easy to move in, this is because of the way it was fitted to the human body. It did get hot, and it could be heavy, but both men had the full range of motion to strike, and block, which meant that in theory the defender could stall. Drag this out until one of his friends could get loose. Of course in that same theory an attacking force could also have assistance going into a mass of infantry was tricky even if they were as tightly compacted as possible. Once you closed it was hard to open back up against an attacking formation. He didn't want to get backed into a corner either. "Thats myrish work." He said, as his eyes raked the shoulders and upper arms, evenly stepping closer. The capital was a cosmopolitan place after all

The Kingsguard decided he didn't want to banter and launched a quick probe. He didn't over extend though, which was generally where Alaric found most of his openings usually opened up. Nothing stood out though. He feinted a strike that had no intention of trying to connect testing the waters as it were, that was the advantage of an entire lifetime of war to fall back on. It wasn't perfect, and it occasionally told him the wrong things, but here, now, Alaric's feet were already moving. The shift putting him forward and to the side of the attempt to intercept his feint. It would have been one thing to have tried doing this from horseback, but on the ground, even in muddy ground

Several hours later he was sore and nursing the mead as other tired men jostled and creaked. The swelling was, by all accounts rather mild. Certainly better than Rickard had made out given he'd gotten between the Iron Born during Dagmer's opportunistic press. That ended up with the Lord of Karhold falling and twisting his ankle. He was lucky that he hadn't broken of Dagmer's lieutenants had gotten overconfident at that point and pressed too far forward. He'd half expected the senior most Iron Born to clobber the idiot right then and there.

Still it had been a problem. Fighting from the ground, wasn't impossible, but it was far from desirable, and a great sword was not practical. That had forced them to wheel. Karstark's shout of alarm, and then pain had made him assume worse than the situation was. Then of course Oberyn had pulled his little mummer's farce. Alaric told himself he could have done something to take better advantage of it, but that had been adrenaline talking. Oberyn had waited until the last possible minute to strike, and still hadn't entirely worked. It would have been better had they been all able to nominally fight along the same side.

Speaking of the Red Viper he was currently sauntering over in the wide brimmed robes favored by the Dornish nobility. "Its quite a shiner," He remarked raising a glass of wine and ignored the grimace.

He, Oberyn, was lucky that his uncle hadn't broken his fool neck. "Who even is considered to have won this farce?" Certainly not the North, they had distinguished themselves but it wasn't worth calling it a Pyrrhic victory. The Reach were certainly loud enough right now to imply they thought they had won.

"And this, my friend, is why such seven sided affairs are not in the fashion of the day." He shrugged and settled onto a space on the long bench, "Its not that the Reach 'won'," He said casting an eye to their 'Champion' in his fine hose and brocaded shirt thirty or so paces from them, "its just that they lost least with Lord Tarly pulling things out as he did."

He'd been a little busy to observe that, not that he likely would have been able to do much by that point. Still by all accounts the Reach lord was superb infantry commander, and that rang true given what he must have managed to pull this off. Then of course he'd gotten clocked sideways, and while his helmet had absorbed he brunt of the damage he'd been too busy by far to care about more pressing issues. Like that the blow had pissed him off. It hadn't been so bad that the fair marshalls had gotten involved, but he shouldn't have allowed himself to be provoked that way. His thumb pressed against the swollen discoloration of his eye and the tinge of pain it brought. "I missed that bit as it happened."


	9. Chapter 3 Part A

-scene break-

If he had thought that House Darry had been pretentious, and a bunch of preening cocks aside, before they were even worse now. The worst of the lot were those who had not even had the decency take the melee field at the Tourney. The last feast had been, well towards the end the souring of the things had reared its head hard. Alaric as he, and Rickard had pointed out before the lists of the joust had opened were not knights. It had not stopped either of them from putting knights like Ser Jonothor Darry. On the other hand whatever stratagem Randyll Tarly employed had effectively won the Reach the victory in the melee. He had been able to preserve enough of his own strength against Dagmer's Iron Born and turn them and the Westermen long enough for Dagmer himself to work into the Narrow Sea houses, and the Northern relieving flank. Then of course everything had gotten muddied, but wouldn't know that if you listened to Lord Darry's sons.

Still he was on the water now, even if it was a slow pace compared to the flight of the open seas they were aboard ship now. He leaned against the forerail, and the course of the wind taking them further away from the coast and into the bay of crabs.

Once they had been aboard it had entailed stowing much of the heavier gear. There was rarely need for armor aboard ships... not even the iron born went constantly so encumbered. He had shifted his long sword from its peace position... not that in truth it would have stopped him from drawing it. If it came to that despite the blade being over three feet of steel a competent swordsman could draw his blade with his left hand. You lost something in the draw speed wise, but it was at least something in an emergency. He had put steel armor away though once they had left the shore.

They had departed Maidenpool six hours previous, and it was tempting enough to open the sails, and make speed and simply ignore Wickenden, or Dyre Den and beat straight for Gulltown.

That would still cost coin for berthing, and and inns. They could have ignored Gulltown, entirely and sailed into the Narrow Sea making north and headed straight home. Or to Overton, they'd have to dock there. Harrier was fleet enough to take them home to port, but her draft was far too deep for the Weeping. He hadn't decided yet, whether a trip to Gulltown was necessary. He had no real need to stay with the pack of northern, and vale lords and that collection of gentlemen who were embarked of the small flotilla of travelling ships. It would get him home faster, and that would have probably been a greater relief to his brother. He ignored Rickard Karstark's profuse vomiting off the side of his vessel.

Falmouth was crossing the deck to move to his elbow, "So are we heading for the second sons, or are they sending some one for us?" He asked.

Certainly not with Rickard along, and even not, "No, they'll come to us," He'd been a rather stickler on that point, if they delivered to the second sons there was a good chance they'd get roped up in whatever bitter Essosi squabble the mercenaries were themselves entangled in, and that was the last thing Alaric wanted his ships distracted by. That was especially true since it would likely paint a target on the other Dreadfort flagged vessels, such as the older less sturdy Overton ships, including his whalers. Those Lorathi ships from before they had even departed from home had him concerned enough. Besides, knowing Roose he'd be expecting a rather full docket when he got back... and plenty of minor vassals having waited for his return before airing any grievances. Roose was meticulously fair for a young man, but hardly personable to the pleas of vassals for exemptions or concerns. There were certainly flaws to both approaches. Alaric also knew his brother was distrustful of allowing exemptions to compulsory military service in exchange for greater taxes, or fortress work, or contributions to other civil engineering projects; bridge repair for example. Who Exactly Roose though the peasant levees needed to be employed against, Alaric was not quite sure. Perhaps Roose expected him to get tied up in some conflict in Essos, or against the wildling vermin north of the wall. At least the wildlings were humans, and not Orcs. Human savages were much easier to contend with as opposed to than say six foot of ugly green rage monster.

"That's probably for the best, we're still sorting the word from Essos. I'm still trying to figure out who has been retained by who in the south." Given the squabbling between Valyria's many daughters that wasn't an easy feat. "My bigger concern are Lys's sell sails, and the Stepstones for that matter if we're going to have to deal with the Lorathi as well."

He nodded. It was an understandable complaint amongst the grandiose fantasies boldly talked about by Aerys II was cleaning up the Stepstones with the royal fleet, but Lucerys Velaryon and the ships of the Royal fleet of House Targaryen remained close to the royal ports rarely daring open seas. "I assume word must have reached us,"  
"From Braavos actually. the Veronese had one of their masters in the port,"

He grimaced, "Ah yes, the least trustworthy of our spice traders, well?" They were valuable traders yes, they were capable seamen, and he felt they were entirely too prone to taking insult when none was intended. Spice, and cloth and silk though were a major blood of trade to the nobility, and to wealthy gentry.

Falmouth nodded, and continued, "The family Representative thinks they might be getting bold enough to chance attacking even official Braavosi shipping..." The minor noble sounded dubious of the idea... pirates were reckless but openly antagonizing... impinging upon the honor of the Sea Lord was tantamount to suicide. Braavos hardly need excuse to go randomly off on killing pirates... but if given an excuse... really... though of course the 'Free Cities', Lys most often but her nearest rivals, and Pentos as well, were known to have their merchants act as pirates whenever they thought they could get away with it.

"Why now?"

"You mean is it related?" He blew out a breath, "Maybe." Oberyn had been forwarded a handsome commission, by his own admission, to broker the deal with the second sons.. though he was uncertain what all of this was about. It wasn't like Volantis didn't know how to make siege weapons, but... the more western free cities... rarely bothered with them. That might explain the weights they were asking after... maybe. It was difficult to be sure.

Alaric followed his gaze out across the bay's waters to the Manderly galley baring Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell and companions. "They think we're distracted." The Essosi as whole thought that, he wondered how well they understood how stupidly large the seven kingdoms were to cross if you didn't have ships.

"Its been two years since Angelo and blood stone," Blood stone, there was a good name. "Pirates, and sell sails have short memories and fewer loyalties." Oh, Alaric knew that, knew that if he offered pay half would happily savage the other half... but he knew he couldn't trust them not to attack his ships all the same.

"They as like hope that Bravos, or failing those purple sails, we," Giving nod to the ship's several masts dipping into the wind, "will unmake their rivals but somehow," by Arakatag or some other vicious sea god no doubt, "they will dodge our wrath and grow fat on fair winds." Likely it was what they thought for surely many of the reavers of the Sword coast had thought to dodge privateers hunting them in a distant world. "They also as like must think Bravos is as distracted as we are, perhaps this foolishness with the Pentoshi." Thus the question which weighed on them was who benefited from all of this... who was gaining profit from this. "It would have to be southern essos, the shores of the Narrow sea I would have to think." Not Volantis, Lys itself seemed unlikely... Tyrosh... he couldn't be sure... Essosi plots were like snowflakes in a northern winter. "I don't suppose any of the Veronese's men happened to chatter away of ships in the narrow sea?" His eyes still glanced to the slower galley of Lord Manderly. It was true an attack was unlikely, especially for a galley close to shore, they were not trying to cross the narrow sea. From Gulltown, and around the fingers route would be the only place to try, once beyond it was absurd to fathom given the Manderly ships, and the rest of the eastern shore.

"I don't think Veronese cares if we have the whole picture." Falmouth muttered darkly, and it was just as likely to be true, "He can't hope to care what the Lorathi do. The Sea Lord is strong, but across the eastern sea the whole array is a mess, and Braavos's situation with Pentos alone is more pressing isn't it?"

He nodded, and grunted an agreement in another tongue, still they'd know soon enough if Valyria's daughters intended to cause trouble this soon. He had his suspicions, that things were going to take a turn for the worse, and those suspicions were why he eschewed the accepted way of things. He had, after all, an entirely full life to call back on, and his magic to go with it. "There are materials we'll need to stockpile then,"

Falmouth's lip twitched, and a moment later, after he regained his composure nodded, "This will be about magic then?"

"Yes," The simple truth was in Faerun, while backwater wilderlands would have lacked some reagents it was still possible to source the more obscure ingredients to some extent, even if it was at an inflated price. Thankfully chamelons, to use one example, could be found in the swamps of the Neck, and charcoal was even easier to source. Yes, some materials were easy to source, and by its nature divine magic was less of an issue. True enough that the biggest issue was not spells themselves, but ritual magic, and the craft of enchanting... that was where he was really hurting from, "There are things in Essos that simply easier to get." Not much of course, but Valyria's daughters proved much easier to source obsidian from than elsewhere, and were used to trading in it, and glass products, and amber, as well as other objects.

Falmouth nodded, "Fair enough," He shrugged, "They'll notice, eventually, if they haven't caught on yet." They probably hadn't. There were too few of those who needed such.

He was alone, well nearly, after all. He wondered how lesser practitioners coped. He wasn't quite certain how druids, or warlocks managed with ingredients though he, assumed, knew that both likely required reagents, but what those would be... was beyond him. It seemed unlikely that someone would be able to track his odd purchases across the narrow sea... and how would they know what was not simply the eccentricity of the warrior noble from distant shores. "I don't think they will, not before we sheathe our swords in their stomachs, Falmouth,"

"The question is who they are, need to know that before we can kill them." The man pointed out... and that was certainly true as they both went back to staring across the waters before the ship.

He loosened off of the railing, and breathed lightly, it would be good to get out into the sea proper, yes the bay of crabs was salt water, but they were hardly too far from shore. Stopping for Wickenden only made sense because of the galleys. It put less strain on Westerosi oarsmen in these waters. It was also safer that way. The bay was busy, and while mapped it still didn't mean they couldn't entirely avoid the risk of either running aground, or running into another ship. There was less chance of that in truly open sea... or even in the Bite... but the bay of crabs was much smaller than that, and much more heavily trafficked by ponderous merchant shipping. "It remains to be seen why they didn't try something else," Oh yes, certainly they might have gotten cold feet, but if some nebulous force, with or without local support, from across the narrow sea hoped to move Harrenhall or the road had been really the only option. In practicality a rogue really only had the option at Harrenhall because of the size of the crowd. No they knew he'd be at harrenhall, which was more than they could say for predicting where he'd be when he was across the sea.

Karluv Falmouth could guess what was troubling him, if in his own way, "They're coin counters, and cloth cutters at the end of it. Cheese mongers, Wine sellers." In the far away days of old, long before the coming of the Targaryens the North men of old had sailed for distant shores to raid and invade with the coming of winter, returning if they survived with the return of summer with loot, and often enough brides. Such winter wolves were no longer. Say what one would of contact with the Andals, but the introduction of more advanced metallurgy, and then the development of, in the more modern style, castles, and then castle forged steel had changed life in the north, regardless of their queer superstitions. After all they'd been driven from Essos by the ever expanding reach of the Valyrians. It was of these children of the old freehold, in the form of the Free city of Pentos that was the most likely purse master responsible for the attempt, Karluv said as much, "Pentos cannot retain armies of sell swords, Braavos is just too close to try and give real provocation. The bigger the fleet grows, and more, if White Harbor's fleet grows the weaker the Pentoshi become." Simply put it was perhaps as simple as geopolitics could get, given Braavos would happily strangle Pentos if given even half the chance. That though, was the issue of broader parties. Just because no one was talking about landing troops on the Braavosi coastline didn't mean it was any small thing. Lord Manderly would likely to prefer not having the boat rocked. Pentos falling totally into Braavosi dominance would really rock the boat.

"A stronger Braavos is not necessarily desirable for the southern free cities," Far from it actually which was why they had supported Pentos's efforts to resist at the turn of the century, and since. "But yes, the only real impediment to Essosi trade," Either through the Merman court, or Overton, "Is lack of demand, most Essosi goods are not profitable enough in the North." That didn't mean trade didn't happen, but the North from a trade perspective exported products like timber, or wool particularly to Braavos, but less so to somewhere like say Volantis. Of course the historical lack in seafaring, especially since Aegon's conquest had never give the wider north cause to concern itself with Essos except the occasional trade at arms. It didn't help that too much of Essos was tied at the hip to the slave trade.

-scene break-

He wondered if his eyes were bloodshot.

Roose Bolton was exhausted. He had broken his fast this morning some beef stew, some bread, and then immediately been confronted with the incoming tax receipts, and arrears. At least all of it was legible, the book keeping system Alaric had forced on everyone in the last years of their father's reign was a much much reduced headache to deal with. Not everyone was thrilled of course, the merchants received certain privileges which of course annoyed certain feudal vassals, and of course certain feudal vasals had certain rights and obligations that annoyed the merchants and gentry of the charted towns. The end result was that the receipts as they were often came with one side or another , one neighbor or another accusing or implying that some one was up to no good.

It was less of a hassle to be sure, even if occasionally some got hysterical over their 'rights' and privileges'.

Not that he'd let it show, but he was tired of dealing with this. He was used to this, though he'd been doing it for years, and for longer stints of time. Not that he'd have been all that thrilled with having to deal with a bunch of southron drunkards playing at arms. When his father had died in 277 it had been because he couldn't not go out drink and hunt bandits himself. Not that Donnel Bolton hadn't already been immoderate in drink to begin. His father though had died as he lived, and that forced Alaric to come home... not that given the situation Roose recognized he wouldn't have done the same if it had been an option. Donnel might not have given two shits about the sea, but the notion that his first born son was out there killing pirates and getting rich, oh that that had been enough. Donnel Bolton had only ever seen what he had wanted to see, as far as Roose was concerned. It hadn't helped of course that his father had been rather popular with the smallfolk.

The castellan of the Dreadfort stood up and stretched. He was twenty now, and his brother older still, and truthfully all of this was ridiculous. He was no less harsh in justice in any of the cases he had been expected to preside over in his brother's absence. In no small part, he thought glaring at the parchments of appeals, because he had specifically refrained form being harsher than Alaric would have been, or deviating from the usual penalties of fines or labor. No one liked mining for clay that was why it was used as a punishment. Mining the river banks to dig out clay was one of his brother's default penalties of community service for a litany of less severe offenses against the public order.

Then of course there were the disagreements between the manorial houses. The lesser nobility, what the south would likely have called simple Landed Knights. Alaric hadn't been gone long enough for the courts to have filtered up any disputes from the hamlets or crofts level from say village elders referring things to the Dreadfort for resolution.

There was a ruffling from behind him, and a squeamish knock as the Reachman poked his head half into the Solar, "Lord?" Light from the stained myrish glass glinting onto his shaved pate.

"What is it?" Roose croaked. He didn't even have the energy to be angry at the intrusion. It was still too early for his brother to have made it back to Overton, never mind all the way home to the ancestral seat of their house. He really hoped it wasn't another dispute over cattle grazing. The north had always raised cattle, and sheep. Dating back to the days of the red kings, and well before the coming of the Andals there had always been live stock disputes. The introduction of the first weapons of iron thousands of years ago had also meant clashes with the invaders from across the sea, and yet still cattle disputes. The twenty year old sighed, "Well, lets have it?"

The maester smiled and nodded. "I was perhaps wondering if I might dispatch a raven to conduct inquiries, I know that you prefer to be apprised of the comings and goings of the castle. I deemed it prudent to ask,"

Right the rookery... Maesters weren't supposed to use the birds without the permission of the liege of the castle. Some did, probably most did, Roose figured, but, "Yes, attend to your duties." Right now he didn't care what those were. Then the maester didn't leave, and Roose grimaced, "What else," Of course the maester had asked about the birds first, because he had some other task. Roose figured he would have known that if he hadn't been tired.

"Lord Overton seems to have gotten into some dispute with the mason's guild." The reachman chuckled sheepishly to himself and pointedly avoided meeting Roose's eyes. He wondered which guild representative had stormed back to Ethering and demanded the Dreadfort solve this, or if it was actually Eamon this time who had lodged the complaint. Either, or, though why they couldn't wait to arbitrate this until Alaric got back. One or both parties were likely to complain, and dispute his judgement just as soon as his brother got back anyway.

The problem of course was that this could be over a lot of things. It could be a private dispute, Lord Eamon had responsibilities of his own, which had not been charged to him by the Dreadfort, on the other hand he also had responsibilities to House Bolton. The worse possibility was that Lord Overton had gotten involved in a dispute that imperiled the latter.

-scene break-

The Graftons, and the Arryns of Gulltown had gone out of their way to receive the returners. It was after all no small thing to have so many high lords in one place. The Riverlanders, in no small part, Alaric mused, likely due to their Ironborn heritage no doubt had always been very prickly about granting charters to their towns. The Tully's rule over the Trident had always been prickly about merchants, and that had applied to the likes of the Whents, and the Darry as amongst the greatest of the Riverlords... and well the less said about house Frey's greed the better. Gulltown was different. It had been a city before the Andal had even come to the shores of Westeros from across the Narrow Sea. Gulltown's inner boundaries opened into one of the valleys which helped to feed it, but the bigger essence of its economy was the port proper. From here the exotic goods flowed in, and the age of the city meant its merchant guilds, of weavers especially given the seamstresses of Gulltown, were particularly powerful compared to anywhere else this far north. It was probably unique to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Oldtown was probably the closest, but it had the Citadel and the Hightowers to keep its own guilds in check. The maesters were understandably loathe to lose any more ground to the guilds with their increasing wealth.

Prior to the Targaryen ascendancy the guilds had been kept in check by various kings, and the internecine fighting. Steel for example was carefully controlled by castle smiths, who nominally speaking at least were part of less strict craft guilds but were generally more bound to their liege lords. This had largely restricted weapons, and more importantly armor, out of the average peasants grasp principally by inflating the cost of even lackluster iron weapons, or going even further back bronze weapons and armor. The constant shifting of power in that era had kept merchant guilds from being able to hold cities but the Targaryen ascendancy had definitely seen to their enrichment. In this there were disgruntlement since it was seen as a Valyrian import, and it had been resisted. The strength of the guilds representation in King's landing was debatable. "And this is why we don't make port in Gulltown," The ship's third officer grunted as the ship was secured to the dock. "All this gawking and staring, and I'm sure someone will trying and shake down for a bribe," he hocked and spat, "Oh North men such simpletons." He said in his 'airy city voice' to parody his perception of Gulltown's denizens, as if he hadn't spent the downtime on the voyage to Harrenhall drunk as a skunk in one of the harbortown's many taverns.

It wasn't like Essosi harbors didn't try to bilk strangers on strange ships for nonexistent fees. The only reason he knew Overton didn't was because of his frequent appearance at the shipyards... and basically all the ships were in someway his, either directly or by owned by men sworn to the Dreadfort directly or to someone sworn to the Dreadfort. Gulltown had ships from Braavos to Lys coming to its harbor. Overton was basically a closed shop... after all White Harbor was much busier.

"So?"

... crew shore leave... drinking and carousing through town, especially a goodly sized town like Gulltown could get out of hand... hmm, what to do, "Yes, go ahead send them ashore. See if you can't find out what the situation is in the free city ports." It was probably Pentos... but anything about the Lorathi would be good. Or any of the cities. More chance of the word here, rather that was the downside to Overton, or even for that matter White Harbor. Their best chance for answers was Gullton short of crossing the narrow sea. "I'm going ashore with Lord Stark's party, there are plans for dinner tomorrow, so we'll be here at least three days."

"Of course."

Actually now that he thought about it probably longer. Galley were not pleasant sailing ships, even accounting for the preference to try and make shore every night rather than sleep under pavilion style covers it was a sluggish journey, and probably only cemented the dislike of open sea most of the nobility held institutionally. He reached inside to the unsling the purse from around his neck, and held it out, "There are instructions inside, and coin so that Luhrs may see to the men, and their entertainment. Do reiterate to the Boseman I would prefer not to have to endure the complaints of the Grafton bailiffs." Falmouth nodded, sushing the ship's third officer before he could add something smart in edgewise, "yes I know that should go without saying, but I'm sure the crew stuck aboard were bored during the tournament." Harrenhall had been the largest of... of the age. Certainly nothing in recent memory came even close to it. He took a couple of paces to one side, and walked back overlooking the shore, and its docks so crowded with people. "Its unlikely, but do keep watches, there are plenty of ships from Essos I'd prefer no trouble."

"Its hard to mistake Harrier as any other ship."

That was precisely the point. In his other that would have seemed laughable... here though, no it was just a simple truth, and a dangerous one. "Yes, make nice with the Braavosi captains, find out what you can." Any harbor collected news, whether it came from overland, or by passing ship, and ships especially given the preference to dock a galley overnight when it was an option. Of course with banks of oarmen going ashore, in the case of free crews, it was easier to gather word of events... a ship of sails had less able bodies to spare.

"And the Manderly?" At confirmation, "and what of the Arryn crews?"

Alaric frowned, for certainly if there was some squall of piracy brewing this far north, he hardly wanted to conceal it, "Its best the Arryns know what might be off their own shores, of course, but if they wont heed warnings let them learn the hard way." The Gulltown Arryns, and the Graftons too were both powerful enough shipping magnates, but there ties of trade with Pentos in the last war had been known to annoy the Braavosi something fierce. "Do we know where the Braavosi legate to the Gulltown is," He did have a manse Gulltown of course furnished as it was by the purse of the Sea Lord, but the job of a legate was hardly static in the case of such trade missions. "Or whether he is about?" Braavos would have went apoplectic if Pentos had tried to restore a permanent trade mission to Gulltown, and besides Braavos Pentos was really the only daughter of Valyria who might well bother with such a mission. Volantis was out right condescending of the notion, they rarely bothered with one to King's Landing... and Lys and Tyrosh simply didn't see and point and were indifferent. If anyone knew the official line, and position of whatever was going on in Essos, it would be the Braavosi diplomats.

"I don't know," Falmouth replied shrugging, "I can track him down if he's somewhere in the city, but if he's not."

Alaric paced back and leaned his back of the exterior wall of the deck house, knotting his fingers in his sword belt. "You're correct, we will leave a message with their mission if he is not. " It was less effective that way, while the Sea Lord of Braavos was powerful he was not a king. There were a variety of powerful magnates he would need to weigh on within the economic cartels of the many islands of the Titan's city. His ability to make decrees was thereby limited, "There is no point in waiting if he is away," The cloth, and fabric trade was something the Vale enjoyed with their neighbors across the Narrow Sea, but there were other less industries, "We will set sail, and make for home." A respite within the Dreadfort for at least moon should be enough of a sojourn to then justify a brief excursion to the likes of the Sea Lord's court." Besides The Seconds Sons would be making their way to them by galley, and thus would take time to reach them, and time further to collect their desired instruments of war. It would be interesting to see what they could discern about that purchase to say the least.

Notes: Now in the books castles in general are stupidly very large. For example Castle Darry in canon, and also here, is described as small, by real world standards is a fairly reasonable largeish stone fortification. Its not Krak des Chevalier by any means. By comparison, its dismissed as 'podunk' compared to say Riverun or for that matter some of the castles of Faerun (That is in Dungeons and Dragons) so when people talk shit about the Darry castle you've got to account for the fact that Winterfell may have had giants aiding in its construction (something that several Faerun castles are also noted to have enjoyed) and probably several other northern keeps. Then there is freaking Harrenhall, so I'm not bashing House Darry they're castle by real world standards are closer to being 'normal sized' compared to most castles.


	10. Chapter 3 Part B

It was a comparatively warm day. At least it was less cool than it had been the day before, though had been a fault of the rain. Not that it had impacted their voyage really. They had been making short hops up along the cost until they had reached White Harbor, and departed the greater host of galleys.

The trade in dyes was nearly impossible to separate from the trade in clothes. The use of yellow dye was one of those common goods that were always viable. All classes of people enjoyed bright colors during times not spent at labor at the farms. It was comparatively easy to make black dye for ink than it was for clothes, such that most of the peasants preferred stonewashed greys and browns for their working clothes than black. Professionals, guildsmen, or those in the employ of a powerful land owner or the nobility general preferred black for the status to distinguish their relative higher status to the average farmer. The difference in black a noble, as Alaric had worn particularly when he'd been heir, was not the color per se, but the quality of the fabric, and the presence of embroidery. An example of this had been the wide sleeves of his tunics at five and ten, which in addition to being predominantly black in color had borne stitching in the iconic peach like tones that House Bolton was known for. That had given way to his own personal arms, especially after he had ascended to the coronet. Most of the men called this color 'sangwyn' or 'sanguin', though it had originally been intended to be a vermilion. In point of fact his woodsman, rangers, often used a jaune colored iteration of the device to mark upon flags, and pennants. It was simply a cost saving measure institutionally since nothing actually required a subordinate office to bear the same standard.

Clothe dyes and paint dyes were not the same. For that matter clothe dyes for banners weren't always the same since they needed to be more used to rains. All of this was a facet of upkeep for particulars. It was an entirely normal house hold expenditure, "I'm sorry," Alaric looked at the man tilting his head slightly to one side to convey the confusion, "Grafton bought," Or reserved for purchase he supposed, "how many pottes?" He was trying to do the math in his head... that was... "Never mind, why?"

"Gifts for the king I suppose."

He scoffed, it made sense though. In technical terms the Targaryen colors were sables, and gules, and the dragon of their arms by the far the harder aspect of that design. Unlike Andalic Graftons, or the First Men who yet ruled in the North the Targaryens were of Valyrian descent. While, as most obviously demonstrated during the joust, they wore Andalic fashions when it came martial costumes Andalized Valyrian styles and cuts, and obviously here colors prevailed rather than the more regional costumes of the nobility. The Reacher Lords wore hose for example, while Northern lords, and the Iron Born, and also the northern riverlands all mostly wore trousers. That was largley a facet though of practical differences in environs. Similarly though the king worse the traditional red robes of Valyrian styling they were not the same cut and measure as the robes that were favored by Dornish nobility. It went on. "And what, by all the gods," Alaric growled, "Does bloody Lord Grafton want dispensation for that entails that kind of expense?" He reached over and picked up the mug of black beer, several cases of which had been picked up when they had made port in White Harbor.

Falmouth shrugged once again, "Don't know, taxes I suppose."

... hmm, yes know that he thought about it that was probably true, and was thus likely the case for this farce. Tywin Lannister resigning the office of hand had disturbed a number of people, and the matters of taxation. The planning for the likes of Harrier, Raptor, Eagle, as well as ships under construction, and drafted was in part to of course protect the Dreadfort. They carried cargo for trade between the narrow sea and farther into the domain of House Manderly, but for the most part he didn't import most of the carried cargo.

Take the Braavo to Volantis runs of the previous year. Most Volantene goods didn't have a market in the north. They made excellent gifts to other nobles but the North at large didn't need them in such quantities, and certainly not those lands of the Dreadfort. Braavosi markets on the other hand, that was another matter. So his ships sailed with goods laden and then came home with coin, or payment in other materials for 'personal consumption' came home to port at Overton. He turned around and then invested that money where he needed it... and had a tidy war chest in the event he needed to go over the river and cave Lord Umber's obstreperous head in.

He set the beer down. "Do we even have any reckoning as to the king's opinion of Tyrosh or for that matter Braavos?" Where else was he supposed to send a ship to bring that quantity of purple dye back to Gulltown. At least they weren't asking for the clothe as well. It was possible of course to source 'valyrian' stylings across the sea, or bastardized valyrian stylings as it happened, but certain fabrics were more difficult to get a hold of, especially on short notice. "All that aside, Lord Grafton must be awfully concerned of Lord Tywins departure from the capital if he is willing to countenance the expense." Not just for the amount of coin the gifting would entail, but hiring out to the Dreadforts sailing vessels. Braavos then, he'd get home first of course, dispatch one of his captains and that would be that. It wouldn't require him to leave, the Overton to Braavos route was routine enough, and Braavos to Gulltown was well tread. Besides, he had to plan for a bridesgift to Lady Stark for the upcoming wedding... and for that matter there was Brandon's union to the Tully girl. It spoke well of course that Robert Baratheon had proclaimed himself willing to wed before the grove of winterfell... there would be not such accommodations at Riverun in all likelihood despite the presence of a heart tree... though in all honesty the seven sided sept was nice enough for a wedding he supposed. Still Riverun was not a large castle and fitting the entire wedding party in the sept was... probably an impossible feat. The feast would be easier to manage of course weather permitting enough of the feast could be seated outdoors. It promised to be fairly large wedding after all.

-scene break-

With several decks of oars you simply had a lot more men than a pure sail ship. It was why he avoided them in engagements. Since boarding was the default form of naval combat, in this world at least it was simply too troublesome to expect to mount siege weapons on such vessels. No one here had developed anything like the Lantanese Smokepowder, which had been developed by the alchemists in service to Gond. Then there was Thay's contributions... but nothing like that here at least not that he'd even heard of. Distant Yi ti had been described as having something akin to fireworks, but he was unsure if they were the same thing.

Thus by conventional measure the Lorathi were like to try and close with them in open sea, board and possibly lob flammables at them as close as they could while not setting themselves on fire. Harrier could easily out run them, opening to full sails she could catch eighteen knots, and that was without magical assistance from his support. Unfortunately there were more practical reasons not to do that. Fighting at such speeds with siege weapons was ... impractical to say the very least. "they're without colors."

He wondered if it was the same ship. He doubted it. No ship was that stupid. This was a major crossing point from Braavos to Gulltown, or at least not far enough off it as to not see regular Braavosi shipping. "How close do we need to be to insure we take their masts in the first salvo?"

"The first, closer than I'd like." He shook his head, "Its, we'd need ranging shots to be certain."

The Lord of the Dreadfort grimaced, "Ranging shots tell them we're armed and hostile." He wasn't opposed to coming alongside, but at that point he'd basically be forced to rely on magic... well no... those were probably slaves, or at best press ganged prisoners laboring at the oars. If he started to resort to magic they were going to kill them anyway. The bigger issue was that sailors talked, and while some of the ancients, and officers knew, which Roose wasn't keen on, most of the fresh sailors didn't... not definitively. Best not to reveal it unless they had to. "Can they intercept us?"

"No, but they could chase us and if there is more than one,"

He followed that line, and really he was discussing this out loud to make sure he didn't miss anything that should have otherwise been obvious, "Right," The Lorathi could be working in tandem, "Any Penthoshi ships you might have noticed?"

"Not since Gulltown."

He hmmed, but waited, "We'll run this one, open the sails up," They make the run and even though Karstark wouldn't like it they would go for speed, and they could probably out run any Lorathi ships around them, but it would be dipping in for Overton that would be the question. "And then go to the arms lockers I want armed men on the night's watch, and more men." It was perhaps an overly cautious move. The Galley had little chance of catching them in open seas, but they might try and catch them nearer to shore. Given his understanding of naval doctrine against more fleet ships that was the accepted tactic... but Harrier was hardly a Longship. They were likely still counting on their much larger body of men. Naval warfare without magic boiled down to boarding the enemy and working from there, and that tended to favor the side with the most men. Siege weapons on ships were oddities.

Of course boarding a ship at sea was hardly an easy thing either. Running planks along the sides was dangerous, slinging lines, up to a ship, wasn't a quick process either. No, it was best to not even consider it, Gulltown had been a ways back. They would see what they'd do. If the galley did manage to put in at Overton they might get some questions answered. This could just be a particularly stupid captain, or trade dispute going on across the narrow sea. Perhaps there was a succession dispute, or there had been a dispute over succession, assuming malice without evidence... was unwise.

-scene break-

Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell was unhappy with developments of late. The king's presence had been completely out of character. Though given his madness he wasn't sure how much validity that such a statement had anymore. They had had a few years of peace true... but even before the atrocity at Duskendale Aerys had been unsteady. Could you really predict a man who had so far taken leave of himself? Had Rhaegar not been married to Elia Martel the resolution of the tournament would have been different. It still would have been stupid, but a married man flattering his daughter who was, herself, betrothed to the Lord of the Stormlands... the prince's own cousin no less, was simply not acceptable. It might even have been different if Rhaegar and Robert had more history together, good or ill, but there wasn't even that. Had Rhaegar been trying to goad Robert it would have been something else entirely.

Without Dragons the Targaryens though lacked the power to force control of the great houses. By several ties with Tywin Lannister there was little chance of much help from him in a great council if they could only get something together. The Kings presence and actions at Harrenhall... his paranoid rantings regarding a simple hedge knight concealing his identity would only help their cause in the long run, but in the short run it had delayed them a critical opportunity to speak amongst their equals. It would be difficult to find another opportunity so fine as the one Harrenhall had promised.

There was one however though. Brandon wedding Catelyn Tully would provide that opportunity, but that would be nearly a year. It would give him and Jon Arryn time to work out something more concrete to present at a great council in the interim. At the wedding they would then hopefully be able to better sway those lords of the Riverlands to the cause at hand. They didn't have to have a charter right then, but they needed to head off at the very least another Duskendale especially if the king sundered the treasury with some inanity.

Without Tywin Lannister in the capital though he wasn't sure if they could count on the crown's finances to remain stable... and he really dreaded the prospect of Aerys taking loans from the Faith of the Seven's coffers. If Rickard had thought that such expenditures might see some tangible return on investment it would have been different... he wouldn't have liked it, but at least the coin would have been going to something useful... but he had seen how Aerys had spent hand over fist on the most inane of sundries. That though likely explained House Darry's insistence on extravagance most of all though.

"Lord Manderly," he clasped his vassal on the forearm. "I thank you for your company. It would be good to have you and yours at Winterfell when time permits it." It would be good to be home though. House Manderly since they had been entrusted with the lands of the White Harbor had done well and made good that trust time and again. The northern hill tribes complained on occasion of southern imports, and traditions. Almost two centuries earlier the Lord Manderly of the time had cleared eighty some acres of timber land for one of his second sons returning from Essos to train horsemen. It was a fine track to be sure, and was used to this day to train Manderly knights, and was the premier northern joust. Of course that title was a bit grandiose all things considered. Not that Rickard Stark would have ever scorned such an invite Harrenhall had been politics yes, but that was hardly the only reason to attend an event.

"I would be honored to."

It would be good indeed to be back to the Godswood, and the heartree of Winterfell. There needed always to be a Stark in Winterfell, but it did not need to be the reigning Stark. It was preferable for it to be so, but war, and the other responsibilities of the office often called the ruling Stark far from their home. That was how their world worked. It was simply the natural order of things.

It was simply true that many times in a man's life he would be called to wield the sword. With Winter, even if it was a mild one, here he Rickard Stark recognized that the span of cold would make toiling for wheat hard, and if it was hard here, then north of the wall where the wildlings feuded with one another then it would harder still. It had been more than a generation since the last truly great wildling incursion, and as such Rickard expected that in either this season or the next winter another high chief and pretender king would likely rise north of the wall to mount an incursion.

For such he would need his vassals. He would have to call his banners, and summon not simply the Manderly but also those lords of the eastern shores, but those lords in the south who were north of the neck. It was from these lands that much of the North's pastureland supplied horses. He would need to call his western vassals to supply quanties of iron for the castle forges to craft mail, spear and arrow heads, pollaxes, swords, and other arms and armor for fighting men. Other smiths would be called to service, and with them other craftsmen to ready carts, and raise temporary lodgings and shops to work from. That was simply how war was.

It was how these things often played out. Every few generations some petty savage played at being king and forced his way across the wall to attack in force with a horde of wildlings. He hoped that it came before he was called to join his ancestors. Rickard knew that Brandon needed the lesson it would impart, but it would be best if he learned it before he was lord of Winterfell, before Rickard was gone. If anything the handling of the melee showed that... oh certainly it was true that the wildlings would lack materiel but that did not mean they were stupid, or as like to break and rout simply because you barreled down upon them whooping and hollering at them. Just because they were too uncivilized to work steel did not mean they were not warriors. Brandon would not be the first Northern Scion to make an assumption of the like, and the melee highlighted the weakness of the wolf blood and the danger it posed to Rickard's heir.

-scene break-

Ah, he mused, Sunspear jewel of freedom, the promise of fine nights along the sea shore... It was true that Oberyn Martell was glad to be home. He would rather have spent his time drinking a bit more, but Doran had had men watching the docks for his arrival, and had had him scooped up quite quickly upon the ship coming to a final stop and anchor. Having been hustled to the palace was a bit much he thought, but he could guess what had happened.

It wasn't as if he had dawdled making his way back home... though not rushing may have been just as bad in Doran's eyes given the situation. It wasn't as if Oberyn wasn't offended by the treacherous cad's behavior... but how exactly was he supposed to act against the Crown Prince, and you know running back to Dorne in haste wouldn't do anything. Try explaining that to Doran though.

Obery sniffed the goblet of wine and sat it back down.

"No, no," Doran tutted, "Go ahead, drink."

Oberyn grimaced, and sipped the bitter vintage... how his brother drank this swill with such regularity was beyond him... ugh, "I am glad to see you, but all this rush?"

Doran's face was a flat inscrutable mask in response to the Red Viper's chuckling, "why don't you tell me, in your own words, about Harrenhall?" Oberyn shrugged kicked his feet up onto the footrest, and considered the fine gold embossed paneling of his brother's solar, and then recounted all of the salient details which came to mind. It wasn't whatever it was he was supposed to have started with in his recollection, "Stop."

"But Doran, it promised to be such a fine time. It really did promise to a splendid adventure." He was saying it because it had been true initially, but also because he did enjoy needling his older brother... it was fun. He shrugged, "Really-"

Doran smacked his hand down on the armrest cutting him off, "How hard would it have been to unhorse our brother in law,"

The implied idiot at the end of the statement would have stung. "Yes, clearly I should have known he was going to do _that_," He retorted in exasperation. "Had he taken to the melee field like a man I would have done just that, but he didn't."

"You mean found his senses again after taking leave of them," Doran barked back, "He pisses on half the realm in front of the rest. No one would have been stupid enough to enter the melee after that."

So he supposed to have known before it happened that their brother in law was going to shame their sister in front of the entire realm. Easy for Oberyn to say, the melee had never been his event either, or for that matter the joust, "So how was I supposed to unhorse him? For what reason, after all this was before he showed himself to being a lunatic."

"Think about it," Doran growled, a mounting edge to the words, "Regardless we will deal with that in time. I'm told your friends in essos paid you call."

Oberyn rolled his eyes, "The disputed lands are flaring up again," It wasn't even such a big flare up... these things happened from time to time. Wars in Essos were much smaller than in Westeros, and the armies were very, very small compared to the great hosts of knights that typified Westerosi mounted combat. "if not Tyrosh, then Lys, and if not them than some of the lesser principalities."

"It is Lyseni piracy that has me concerned." Doran replied as he took a sip of his own goblet of wine. Nymeria had burned the ten thousand ships that had brought her, and her followers to Westeros, and while southern most Dornish, those of the stone folk still maintained their own ships, most of the salt dornish nobility did not keep personal fleets. No Prince of Dorne had gone against that since they had linked with Nymeria in the times of distant history. "The entire thing has been getting worse since the Defiance at Duskendale," It had been several years now, but when Aerys II had ordered House Darklyn put to the sword most of the captains of the fleet raised by House Darklyn had turned sell sail in response. Some had turned to out and out piracy, but the bigger effect was just that there were less ships hunting pirates in the narrow sea and that had served to embolden the lyseni. "Of course Lord Steffon dying did nothing to help matters either,"

He grunted, "True, it is no secret that Robert Baratheon has no love for the sea." He was not likely to pay much heed in matters beyond his own shores... and as it was too many of his vassals, particularly those along the coast like the Conningtons were already looking elsewhere. "His brothers likewise are unlike to seek wealth from there." While generous in spirit, and word, and genial as a carouser, Robert had shown no inclination as to what he meant for his younger brothers, neither Stannis who held the ancestral home or his youngest brother Renly. Not that this was all together surprising, Robert was of course young, and very early in his reign. Still as ruler of the Stormlands he would be expected to give some sign on where he stood on such things.

"That is true," Doran agreed, "yet I said I have seen no evidence that Stannis Baratheon may seek service with the second sons after his brother Robert weds the Stark girl. If he means to settle his brothers in castles of their own to solidify his grasp on the Griffin, or one of the others he must act soon."

Oberyn cast another grimace at his goblet, weighing whether or not to down all of it to be done with it or if that would just prompt his brother to refill it, "You mean, whether such would fall to Dorne, whether it would be in the interests to do something about it." Whether he would have to do something on behalf of Dorne. That was how the game worked after all. "You really think House Baratheon is in a position-"

"I don't think House Baratheon recognizes its own problems," If Lord Steffon hadn't drowned the situation would be totally different... but Steffon Baratheon was dead. Dorne had too much enmity in the historical, between the border houses especially, with the Reach, and for admittedly to a lesser extent the Stormlanders. Such enmity had prevented strong ties with their neighboring kingdoms, and the Independence from Aegon's conquest had always stirred ill feelings from the other realms now that they were united through the Iron Throne. That didn't help them, and had contributed to Dornish autonomy, and separtism for the most part. There were of course as always exceptions on individual basis.

-scene break-

Alaric paid little mind to the chattering of the sea birds. Overton generally attracted great swarms of them because of the fish market, as well as the whaling docks. The expansion of the latter had begun while he was still heir to the Dreadfort, before his ascension to the coronet. His father had not particularly understood, but hadn't particularly cared, and thus had let the matter be. Whale oil, blubber, and other materials was a valuable commodity, especially since it could be used in various ship needs and justified building more ships. In short it had been an expedient political decision for Alaric to make as heir, and then expand upon once he had taken up the coronet. No one thereby had paid much attention to it. After all, most of the nobility could care less about boats... or the difference between 'boats' and 'ships'.

"Blegh," Rickard Karstark spat another mouthful of water out over the side as he worked to clear his mouth of the taste of vomit. Thankfully his frequent spates of seasickness had largely abated as they came back towards the shore rather than moving away from it. That could have been coincidence or it simply have been Rickard's nerves calming... or whatever... everyone took to the sea differently, "Oh good we're almost there."

"Are you actually going to ride to Karhold?"

Rickard shot him a dirty look, "Yes, yes by the gods I intend to ride." He declared, "I will ride a horse, I do not care if it takes longer. I have had the sea underneath me for too long."

They hadn't actually been at sea for all that long. The only reason Alaric considered this a slow trip had been the need to keep Harrier at a relatively sedate pace in order to keep her with the much slower galleys of House Manderly which had carried the more complete Northern party, and that had meant that for the distance the sailing ship had from White Harbor to the bay of crabs been travelling at their speed. Once of course they had departed white harbor they had been free to open the sails and cut loose into the wind. If Rickard took a ship from Overton it would have saved time going north, and up the river to Karhold. A horse and overland travel would have taken longer, even with the improvements of the last two generations to the overland roads. Not that... those improvements were particularly grand... mostly it had been shoring up the crossings, and widening certain major points between the two northern domains. "I have business in Overton," Roose, via magical log book, had given him no end of grief over... something... he wasn't clear what Braxton had managed to do to piss off his burghers and guildsmen, but apparently they had started shouting at one another in the midst of the Dreadfort in public court. Not that that was unheard of... people had it out all the time, but it was still annoying. "Before I go up the weeping, and back to the fort,"

Rickard nodded, "Aye, I may take lodging for a few days, I'll need to gather tack, and such for the ride."

When they had stopped over at White Harbor Alaric had deposited a significant percentage of his winnings, and other earnings from the tourney at the North's largest bank. Part of that was because those coins could then be used to cover company expenses related to shipping, part of it was simply to have coinage on hand in the Manderly domain in case he happened to need it. Rickard had less reason to maintain such accounts, and thus his betting on the jousts from hustling over eager reachmen was a little more heavy in his pocket. Technically Overton did have its own finanfical institutions, but Rickard had no reason to use them, so he'd take his winnings and lock them in the treasury of Karhold. Alaric would similarly be depositing most of his remaining winnings in the treasury of the Dreadfort. There simply wasn't a reason to make a special trip to say Braavos's iron bank to deposit such a sum.

Rickard shuffled slightly along the railing, "So what did you make of little Benjen Stark?"

Lord Stark had three sons fast approaching manhood all. Besides internal feuding, the most frequent breaches of peace were wildlings, or the Iron Born. Alright, so truthfully the Iron Born were more of an immediate issue for those lands of the western shore, and about the Neck. Alaric shifted his gaze to the growing features of the coast, as he thought about it. It was easy to mistake a map if you knew not the lands truth. Overton was situated on the delta of the Weeping. It wasn't an ideal natural harbor but the oldest settlements were set somewhat recessed from the open sea. "He did well enough for his first melee,"

"Aye," Rickard agreed. It wasn't as if the admission cost either of them anything one way or another to be sure, "He's old enough that his father will have started to contemplate what to do with him," At least Rickard Stark would have. Donnel Bolton had never given heed to such things when he'd still breathed... and that had left Alaric and Roose significant work to complain about. Rickard Stark though... all three of his sons were old enough that they were unlikely to die of childhood causes, and thus it might be time to begin parceling out small holds for them to manage. The most obvious were old Stark holdings like Deepwood motte, but it was hardly the only possibility. "I've yet to hear word on my cousin Ned either."

That was true. To be fair if Rickard's heir took sick or died in an accident it would be his brother Eddard Stark fostered in the Vale who would then become heir by rights to Winterfell, and that would have suited Lord Rickard's southron ambitions fine. Brandon seemed hale enough so while they could delay longer for him it might make sense to start the raising for some hold for the youngest brother. "You expect lord Stark to ask some form of labor?"

"No, not precisely," The specifics of Feudal vassalage though most associated to war time calls for ones banners involved civil services as well. Roads did not maintain themselves after all, so Lord Stark could have called upon a levy of men for a construction project. This was a reliable way to gt things done since one could rotate men from different domains to handle the raw body of work, but, "Its that I haven' heard much at all on it."

"That is hardly unusual," Plenty of northern sons, and not always spares, departed for seasoning in mercenary companies before such holds were considered. "Not unless this business with the second sons has you concerned?"

"It seems ill timed is all, Al. The second sons asking for siege weapons, I know that prince of Dorne is a friend of yours, but those sell swords must have something severe planned for them."

And likely whatever essosi adventure it was about would be long over before Benjen Stark was old enough to ship for them, or any other mercenary company.

-scene break-


End file.
